Free Like You Make Me
by mockingjayne
Summary: A collection of Misa one shots.
1. Chapter 1

Sara hears a crash coming from her son's room, the incessant barking from their dog playing fiddle to the noise from that end of the house.

Her nerves immediately jump to her throat, the panicked cry, _"Michael, what are you two doing?!"_ echoing through the house, her voice carrying to the room faster than her legs can move her.

They'd lived a relatively calm, normal (if that were such a thing for her) life the past couple years, settling into a house and a routine that kept her mind off the gaping emotional wound that seemed to bleed whenever she looked at her son, a reminder of the life that although brief, had wrecked her in the most beautiful form. Her focus through the years remained on the small boy who resembled her more than _him_ , but with a quiet intelligence that suggested he was all his father.

If not for Mike, she'd have long since crawled under the covers of her bed and settled for the long haul, waiting to succumb to the grief that threatened to overtake her. Instead, she's been given a reason to get up, to carry on, a quiet strength nestled within that she'd carried for nine months, now free to roam this earth.

She finds herself outside the door, blind panic tightening its noose around her neck. Her wild eyes searching the room for her son, only to find the space empty, but his window cracked slightly open, upturned toys on the ground below, the dog barking up at the intrusion. Her hands find their way to her long hair, pulling it back in frustration, turning in circles, frantically looking for where he could be.

"Michael!" His full name is yelled into the room, until a small head pokes itself out from under the bed.

Her head falls back, a sigh of relief, before collapsing to her knees, her fingers burying themselves in his brown locks.

"What were you doing?" She asks, pulling back to stare into matching eyes of her own.

"I was just playing," he remarks, a string of toys neatly lined up underneath the bed, trailing all the way to the window, where it looks as if a few had fallen to the ground.

"I told you not to play with the window," she says with relief, the immediate danger having been alleviated, the burgeoning curiosity of her young son always finding new ways to both concern her and smile on in pride.

"I was waiting for the mail," he explains, crawling from out from under the bed, and she fully wraps him up, bringing him to sit on her lap.

"Oh yeah? Are you expecting something important?" She teases, tickling Mike with a smile. His laughter replaces the once loud barking, and the crash of his toys, causing the dog to come over, trampling the two of them, joining in on the fun.

"Yessss," he elongates his response, coming out in bursts of giggles, squirming all over, gripping her hands.

"And what might that be, mister?" She settles her hand, continuing to keep him wrapped up against her, refusing to let him go.

"A bird," he says with a level of confidence she can't even scoff at the imagination of her child.

"Hmm," she offers. "Well how about we go get this bird together when it comes?" She asks, leaning over to see him, moving the hair from his forehead to get a better look, before placing a kiss on his face.

"It already came, Mom," he reasons.

She stills at the admission, her heart rate picking up again. Mike wiggles out of her grasp and underneath the bed.

"Mike?" She says, voice tinged on the verge of panic, while remaining composed on the outside. The open window, knocked over toys, and barking dog adding up to the level of concern that was fighting its way to the surface.

"See!" He says, plopping back down in front of her. In his hand is the past coming back to haunt her in the form of a paper swan, resting on Mike's small hand.

Her breath hitches, her eyes traveling from the bird up to her son, a bird she'd seen all too often back in the day, offering her solace and comfort in her times of need, and here it was. The same bird placed in the littlest Scofield's hands.

"Where did you get this?" She almost whispers, hovering her fingers above the figure, afraid the image will crumble to dust if touched by her, along with every long since dissipated hope that maybe, somehow, it wasn't all over.

 _He could come back._

That's what she'd told herself for a while. The thought shrouding her like a security blanket, the blind hope seeing her through her pregnancy. Rationality eventually taking over, along with grief, acceptance, and carrying on. But the the tiny seed of possibility always remained just on the fringe of her thoughts. The idea that he could come back.

And then just like that, the cynicism washes over her, convinced this is a setup. That the past is finally coming back to haunt her, drag her and her son through the hell she'd once narrowly escaped. Their safety compromised.

She's so lost in her thoughts she doesn't hear his answer, until he's tugging on her sleeve.

"I have lots of them," he states, quickly presenting her with a bevy of swans, falling like a petals of a flower into her lap.

She hesitantly picks one up, the paper although not fragile, she handles with care. Gently bringing the wing of the bird down to expose a message written in black ink, the handwriting she knew would be there, and could recognize anywhere staring back at her.

 _"It won't always be like this, this room, this place."_

The words spoken to her in the infirmary repeated back to her, the words no one could possibly know but the two people in that room. The same message now relayed to their son, the same sentiment present. The inability to be together ringing out over them.

She quickly picks up another, and another, each one laced with something only he could know.

"It's him," she hears, Mike's big brown eyes staring at her. It's not a question, but a statement.

"Yeah, baby, it's him," she repeats, tears springing to her eyes, a shaky hand coming to her mouth.

Michael Scofield was back in their lives, but the truth was, he'd never really left. Not really. The proof staring them back in the form of origami.


	2. Chapter 2

"Come on, baby, we gotta go," Sara instructs her son, her hand coming to run through his brown, auburn locks.

He sits mesmerized on the couch, his video game discarded next to him in favor of the baseball game playing on TV, his dad lounging beside him.

She's met with silence, the lack of response not even irritating her as she watches them both, sitting in the exact same position, unconsciously mimicking each other, both of them squinting at the tv with such concentration.

This was the kind of image she'd never let herself think about. The what-if moments, casual days spent doing nothing but spending time together. A reality that up until recently had been nothing more than a fantasy she'd cooked up in her head, teasing, haunting, until she pushed it down, buried it deep, knowing that it was an impossibility.

Until now.

She dips down, her head hovering in the space between her two Michaels.

"As much as I hate to break this up, we gotta go," she says again, placing a soft kiss on her son's cheek.

"No," he utters, her usually well behaved boy obstinately refusing to go. "I don't need glasses," he assures her. "I'm fine," he huffs out, not unlike his dad who will never admit when a problem arises with him, instead insisting he's fine until he is physically incapable of functioning, and then still stubbornly convinced he could continue.

"Don't you want to be able to see the ball when you play?" She jokes, but the stubborn look on his face tells her it didn't go over well. His quiet stare telling her he's dug in with his stance, and not willing to budge.

"I'll take him," Michael offers, his whispery voice floating through the air to meet a smile on Mike's face.

"Really?" The boy asks excitedly, everything exponentially more exciting when his dad did anything with him. The newness of their situation having not lost its shine yet, and the prospect of an outing with Dad warranting a bright smile, and a look of affection towards him.

"Okay, well…" Sara rattles off directions, a slight tinge of nerves coloring her voice, but the same affection hinted in her smile, liking the idea that shared responsibility was a thing she could have now, only paired with the constant fear that she hoped would eventually ebb its way out of her system as time passed and they settled into a routine, one in which they were safe.

Mike grabs a baseball cap to throw on, never leaving without one since finding out what a big fan his dad was of the Cubs, and adopting it into his DNA as well.

"Bye, be safe," Sara says to them, her hand coming to her lips, as they move to leave the house. Michael turns at the door with a soft smile, his blue eyes glistening, assuring her they'd be fine, before closing the door behind him.

She wanders the house, the silence an unaccustomed lack of sound stilling her in her thoughts, before finding herself at the dining room table, a stack of pictures she'd had printed recently.

Settling in the chair, she pushes her long hair out of her eyes, before her fingers skim the shiny images staring up at her. She'd planned to have them framed and hung throughout the house soon, having momentarily abandoned the project in blissful contentment of every day life sneaking up on her.

They'd had a sort of backyard gathering the other week, all their friends in one place, including Michael, for the first time in forever, smiles contagiously passing between them all. He'd been dressed smartly, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, beer in hand. Her eyes had tracked him the whole night, not wanting him out of her sight. The one moment she'd taken a seat, crossing her legs in her long skirt, her arms dangling over her knees, glancing over at her son tossing the ball around with Lincoln, Michael had taken the opportunity to perch on the arm of her chair, wrapping his arm around her. She'd leaned in without thinking, placing her head squarely on his chest, her eyes closing, a feeling of security washing over her.

The feel of him against her was one that she could never seem to replicate, even in her head. The cadence of his voice, the soft whisper it created, the exact shade of blue that seemed to border on green in the right light, the slight stubble he let grow out when his mind was preoccupied, the freckle on his temple that her thumb always seemed to find when her hand came to his face. The soft tickling of his short hair underneath the palm of her hand with a gentle sweeping motion before placing her lips upon him.

But more than the physical feeling of him, the emotional one he seemed to wrap her up in was one that she dared to hope would remain permanent. The wound of the past seven years a gaping hole that only seemed to heal with every morning she woke to find his penetrating gaze staring at her, as if remembering an old puzzle he once knew how to put together so easily, but was now challenged to remember the pieces as they were and memorize the new way in which they fit, no better, no worse, just different.

It's there, at the table, staring at the pictures her friends had taken of them that day, wrapped up in each other, like the rest of the world had dissipated around them, that the footsteps of her boys echo through until they're standing in front of her.

She can't help the laugh at the pair of them, both with glasses adorning their faces, cute smiles peeking out.

"Well don't you two look handsome," she says, taking Mike's face in her hands and examining him closely.

"Dad needed a pair too," he states, her big brown eyes staring back at a matching set.

"He did, did he?"

Michael shrugs behind him, adjusting the frames with his fingers in a gesture that has Sara biting her lip.

"Turns out I squint for a reason," he says with a raise of his eyebrow.

Sara laughs, standing from her seat, her hand resting on her son's head.

"Is that so?" She teases. "Why don't you go wash up, and we'll start dinner, hmm?" She directs towards Mike, who nods. Sara turns around to straighten the photos, only to see an M&M being passed between Michael to Mike in a sly move, before he trudges off to his room, a conspiratorial smile passing between father and son.

"I don't need glasses to see that," she warns, a grin appearing on her face as she turns back, walking up to him, her hands coming to rest on his stomach.

"You sure?" His whispery voice rising at the end, signifying he was joking. "We could all match," he says, bringing his fingers to brush the hair out of her face.

"Don't tempt me, Scofield," she warns, dipping her head, staring at her hands playing with the fabric of his shirt.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he pauses, his thumb stroking her cheek, "Scofield."

She knows he can feel her smile against his hand, as he bends to bring his forehead against her own.

They stand there for a moment, just breathing each other in, their hands refusing to move even as Mike comes bounding down the stairs.

"So what's for dinner?" He asks them, completely unbothered by them as they glance down at him.

"Not M&M's," Sara says, a squinted look of her own, turning to eye Michael, before letting go, and turning to the kitchen.

"Shhh," Michael whispers at his son, his finger coming vertically to his lips, before sneaking another one to him, and popping one into his own mouth, walking behind Sara.

"Let's have tacos!" Mike declares, munching on his candy.

Sara laughs at the counter.

"Like father, like son," she says with a roll of her eyes. The past colliding with her future, staring back at her with matching glasses, her M&M.


	3. Chapter 3

The weight of this moment was palpable in the air, the burden that she'd felt weighting her down all those years finally lifted from her shoulders.

She glances back at Michael who carefully follows behind her, his hands twisting themselves into knots with nerves, as if scrubbing away the sins etched into the life lines scrawled across his palms. Not feeling worthy of this moment, his heavy breathing and downcast eyes a clear indicator of a level of self-loathing that only he could achieve when faced with the one thing he'd always wanted.

She turns and stops, causing him to halt in front of her.

"Michael," she says with a caring voice, lined with the same nerves dancing across his hands. Her brown eyes meet his blue ones, and a shy smile crawls across her face, an assurance that everything would be okay, that this was okay, more so, it was right.

He seems to pick up on her message, their communication transcending words, instead conveyed through a look, an utterance of his name.

One side of his mouth quirks with his eyes alight, before a full blown smile makes its way to him, and he nods to her, signaling that he is good to continue.

They enter the room, Sara coming around the corner to find her son sitting with his uncle, and while she assumes that he's unaware of what's about to happen, intuitively, she knows that he knows.

"Hey baby," she greets him, and he glances up, pieces of his auburn hair hanging into his eyes, which grow wide at the individual who follows behind her.

She can feel Michael pause behind her, unsure of how to approach the situation, afraid that he'll spook the boy.

It reminds her of when she first found out she was pregnant. She'd suspected for some time, the urgency with which she encouraged Michael to go to the hospital, to get checked out, only spurred on by the feeling that she wanted her baby's father to be in their life, unlike her own, unlike his own.

And when that test had confirmed her suspsion, she'd stared into that mirror, the rush of every emotion reflected back on her face. The nerves causing her to shake as her hands came to run through her hair. Because while she knew the timing couldn't be worse, she couldn't help but picture a baby that looked like her with a personality as perceptive and sweet as Michael, the shaky smile couldn't help but adorn her face, laced with a terror she found only grew as did her baby.

Mike tilts over, as if peering around her to the tall figure behind her, nervous blue eyes shifting over him.

"Mike, I have someone who wants to meet you," she says, unsure of the right words to introduce her son to his father, the one he'd immortalized and made into a mythological God.

Michael takes that as his cue, stepping around Sara out into the open, an encouraging smile from Lincoln, having him give a slight nod.

He continues wringing his hands, but a grin appears on his face as he gets closer to the boy, before dropping to his knees to get on his level.

"Dad!" Mike yells, before launching himself into his arms, introductions forgone in place of the enthusiasm of the young boy whose hero had just made his appearance, in the flesh, into his life, permanently.

Michael scoops the boy into his arms, his hand coming to cradle his head, his long fingers running through his longer hair.

Sara can't even control the almost guttural sob that wracks up with a sort of laugh.

She had had what felt like only a brief moment to enjoy, to think of a future with the three of them, before it was so cruelly ripped away from her, leaving her a single mother.

In her wildest dreams she couldn't have imagined an outcome like the one she was witnessing, but she knew, she felt, that as much as this moment meant for her, the guilt, the relief, and the love that was currently pouring out of Michael into their son was something he'd likely tortured himself with for the past seven years, eating away at him like a sickness, that left him ravaged, grasping for anything from before, instead finding himself with a future brighter than anything he could've planned for.

Her hand comes to her mouth, her tears wetting the pads of her fingers, as she watches the two embrace.

Michael glances up at her, not a look of panic, but one of pure disbelief at his fortune, a long day's journey having finally landed him home with his family.

"I knew you'd come back," she hears Mike whisper into him, and this time it's Michael who lets out a raspy whisper of a sob.

"I never left you, buddy. I never left," he says, pulling back for a second, digging in his pocket for something, producing a crane just like the ones Mike had discovered being discarded into the drain.

"I told you," Mike announces, looking over at his mother, Michael's gaze following his to land on her as well. Her two Michaels staring over at her.

She can't answer, instead just nods with a smile, one of her arms wrapped around her, as if holding her heart together at the sight, the other hindering her speech.

"Yeah, yeah you did, baby," she agrees, but Mike's already focused his attention back on his dad, whose explaining how to create the bird resting in his hand.

Her life displayed in the creases, bends, and folds of that bird, and the two Michaels who dissect the design of their future.

Together, happy, finally.


	4. Chapter 4

Sara's legs are pulled up, shielding herself from the question she was too afraid to ask, her hands spread across her knees, the once glittering rings adorning her fingers having since been removed. The tan line visible even in the dark, a glowing white line of deceit staring back at her. A reminder of the treacherous lies she'd chosen to believe, her life manipulated for the those years by a man consumed with winning.

She frustratingly pulls her long hair from her face, her fingers lacing through the auburn, exposing her eyes to the truth. Beating herself up was bound to become a nightly habit at this rate. The thoughts of what could have been come floating into her peripheral.

There was a time, albeit briefly, where she had felt safe. Never healed, never whole, but surviving. Her son providing her with the necessary means to breathe, to get out of bed each day. And she'd risked it, she'd left her son with a man, and the thought of things having turned out differently scared her.

But what scared her even more was the future that slept behind those doors.

In the whirlwind of events surrounding Michael's return, she'd barely had a moment to catch her breath. The meeting of Mike with his father had been an instant that she was sure was never going to leave her, tattooed on her eyelids, a flutter of lashes like a hazy vision that seems more like a faraway fantasy, something she dreamt up, rather than the reality of her life right now.

And when the night had settled, and her son had peacefully fallen asleep in the arms of his dad, his long fingers tangled in his auburn hair, tattoos dancing across his head like a map of his journey to get there. It had taken the the persuasion of his whispery voice to the small boy, the promise of tomorrow, of forever, to get Mike into bed, fighting the sleep, the last image he saw before surrendering to slumber, Michael's smiling face.

They'd stood awkwardly in the hallway, the glow from Mike's nightlight catching them in its light, surrounding them in the truth of the moment. Sara had stared up at him, the soft light exposing the swirl of green twisting with his blue eyes, a nervous smile painted on his face.

"So uhh, I can go—"

"No," she finishes before him, not wanting him out of her sight, afraid if she closed her eyes, he would disappear like before. As if her mind was playing tricks on him, a hologram of her husband standing before her.

Her hand reaches out, placing it gently on his chest, the erratic beat of his heart thumping beneath her finger, pulsing through her.

His head tilts down, and she laughs, having forgotten just how tall he was…is. His forehead comes to rest on top of her head, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

"I…it feel like this isn't real…" she voices, the solid figure standing before playing cruel tricks on her mind.

"It's real," he whispers into her, calling back to a time when she'd also been confused, but this time around, she knew Michael Scofield's intentions, his true colors having shined through a long time ago, and ingrained in her very being.

His words only confirming what she knew to be true.

She nods against him, both refusing to move from their positions. They stand together, soaking up the lost time in the form of each other, illuminated in the house she'd shared with another, breaking their embrace upon the realization. She takes a step back in her betrayal, her arms coming to wrap around herself.

"I can just take the guest room," he motions behind him, breaking their silence.

"Uhh yeah, sure, sounds good," she fumbles with the words.

And there she sat, curled up in the hallway with nothing but the guilt of the present, sandwiched between her past and the future.

She slowly stands, tucking her hair behind her ears, before peeking into Mike's room. He's sleeping soundly, gripping his blanket tightly, a content smile in place, like his dreams had somehow bridged their way into his reality. She can't help but grin back at her sleeping son.

Turning, she finds her hand hovering over the door handle of Michael's room, her internal demons, shame and guilt battling it out with the part of her that wanted nothing more than to succumb to the happy ending life was presenting her with.

Quietly, she makes her way into the room, but she's once again met with the glow of his eyes staring back at her from bed.

His arm peeks out from the covers, patting the space on the bed left open, the side of the bed she'd always taken, like a habit he couldn't quite let go of.

Hesitantly, she makes her way to the bed, tucking her legs under the covers, but keeping her distance from him.

Her head lowers to the pillow, their noses inches apart from each other, his eyes free to wander over every inch of her face, as if memorizing every new line, introducing himself to this new her. She knows because she's found herself doing the same thing.

Her hand moves to bridge the gap between them, running over his now salted hair, the short bristles like a paint brush skimming over the pads of her fingers, a familiar stroke she'd taken so many years ago, and still familiar over the tips of her fingers.

He smiles against her arm, and she purses her lips.

"Michael," she mutters, her voice taking on a delicate whisper akin to his own. "I'm so sorry."

It's his turn to nod, seeming to understand how much weight those words carried, encompassing everything that had happened, the lies, the manipulation, and having fallen prey to the same man.

"Me too," he promises, knowing full well that the amount of guilt dragging them both down would likely drown them both before they even got a jump on the second chance they'd been given.

Those words signifying a release, free to live their lives. She scoots over to him, entangling their legs, and burying her head in the crook of his neck, his arm coming around to shield her from her own thoughts.

"Dad?" She hears from the doorway, Mike sleepily standing in the doorway, staring curiously at his parents.

"I'm right here, bud," he answers, and it's only a minute, before he's squeezed his way between the two, Sara's hand pushing his hair from his face.

"I didn't want to wake up and have you not be here," Mike says, his big brown eyes staring up at both of them, and she can see the flash of pain flit across Michael's gaze down at his son.

"I'm not going anywhere," Michael answers without hesitation, his eyes flitting between the two of them, a promise sealing their future.


	5. Chapter 5

Sara's hand twists at every which angle, examining the man's hands who lay intertwined with her own. The afternoon sun shone through the windows, casting a glare over the section of the couch that they lay. Mike having passed out on the floor below in a pile of pillows and blankets.

Michael had been sitting up, watching a baseball game, when she'd trickled into his space, her head resting on his shoulder, and then on a pillow over his lap, his fingernails grazing over her head, a soothing comfort that she'd relished in. She stared blankly at the television, the images of players scattered across the screen instead replaced by the images playing in her mind, as his fingers danced over her.

A lazy Sunday, one much needed after spending all of yesterday outside for a baseball game that Mike had pitched in, coached by Michael, a cap adorning his head, as he'd leaned against the chain link fence, a bright smile on his face, watching his son run warm up. Sara sat proudly in the stands, her rings, the one she'd had locked in a box for far longer than comfort, had made their appearance again, glittering in the sunlight that splashed across them, cheering her boys on to a victory.

Her hand reaches out to catch his forearm, stilling his hand in the process, and bringing it in front of her. He remained pliable, allowing her to do what she pleased with his limb. She turned, so she was now on her back, his arm now draped across her stomach, as she picked it up to examine.

Her friend had once joked that she took twenty minutes to roll up Michael's sleeve in Fox River, and sometimes old habits die hard. Her nimble fingers taking their time to roll his long sleeves up to his elbow, slowly exposing the tattoos that inked his skin in a language she didn't know, with the eyes of the wise staring back at her.

She can see his eyes flicker down to her from the tv, and a little grin plays on his lips, but he doesn't say a word, just allows her to continue.

His palm was now held in both her hands, his hand splayed out so she can trace the lines etched into his skin, the ones covered in ink, but no less telling of their life. Her fingers glide over the lines, as if melding their story into one.

She links their hands, holding them up in the light, twisting this way and that, and she can hear a laugh float down to her.

"What are you doing?" He asks in that whispery voice, his eyes almost translucent in the light, the blue and green mixing with a grey, leaving nothing but light.

"Nothing," she says embarrassedly, pushing her hair our of her face with her free hand.

"I've got my eye on you," he says, gesturing down to the eye tattooed on his hand, currently pressed against her. And then he laughs, like he'd just said the most hilarious thing ever, the infectious cadence leaving her to shake her head and join him, his bad attempts at distracting her having been something she'd missed.

When their laughter has settled, and silence threatens to overtake them, she collapses their hands to her chest, the two of them resting heavily on her. Sara glances down to see their son still sound asleep, the noise having not even stirred him.

"Do you remember the last time we did this? Before?" She asks, and he squints, as if trying to remember a time when they were together and relaxed.

He nods, his smile never leaving him.

"You were pregnant," he offers, a fond memory from before recalled in the weeks between their exoneration and the wedding. The first time they'd been able to take a breath in so long.

"You were offering up baby names," she says with a short laugh, her eyes finding their sleeping son.

"As I recall, you rejected all my suggestions," he says matter of factly, raising a finger.

She closes her eyes with a nod, a laugh, and a deep sigh.

"Next one, all yours, you can pick," she offers.

But he stills, staring down at her with a titled head.

"Next one?" He asks, voice full of hope, but also one of shock.

"You know, if you want," she offers, refusing to meet his eyes, instead focusing on his hand locked in within her own.

She feels a gentle squeeze from the hand she'd claimed as her's, his answer resting on her heart, entangled, and always her's.

"Next one," he agrees, smiling down at her.

xxxxxx

As she digs in the old box, surrounded by her two grown children, she finds her mind wandering to every which memory that seems to float along in the objects. The idea of losing Michael Scofield from her life not a strange or new realization, but the actual act of living without him proving to be more difficult.

It's only when she comes across the phone, the one with a cracked screen, and an outdated design, does she nearly discard the item.

"Wow, I haven't seen one of these in forever," Mike says, grabbing the phone from her. "I wonder if it still works," he says, turning on the phone to a yellowed screen that once looked clear.

His sister comes to join them, her dark hair shining in the sunlight from the window, as she glances up at her mother, her eyes that same translucent glow she remembers from before, until her eyelashes contrast the color, leaving a blue-ish hue in their wake.

It's his voice that first catches their attention, the distressed message echoing through the speaker to the ears of his family, the true intention of the message only now reaching its recipient, some 30 years later.

Sara leans against the wall, tears streaking down her cheeks, as her hand comes to cover her mouth, slowly moving to rest over her chest.

Her kids look at her, tears in their eyes as well.

 _"I never stopped loving you,"_ ringing out in that same whispery voice with such conviction, lost to her, having traded the video for the real thing, only to find her on a day she truly needed them, surrounded by the physical manifestation, proof of their love, her babies.

"I love you, Michael Scofield," she whispers back, as the video turns to black.


	6. Chapter 6

Michael is guided into the infirmary, her eyes tracking him as he sits at the exam table. Her hands fumbling with the equipment she'd need, a clanging sound echoing through the small room, causing her to break contact, looking down at her hands, a frantic wave of nerves only steeled with a deep breath, rallying every ounce of professionalism that she had to cling to as she walked into the exam room.

He seemed nervous, the usual sideways grin he'd take on when she entered replaced instead with a serious gaze. One that only faded with a grimace as she put up the partition and helped him remove his shirt and bandage.

Her hair had had a slight curl to it that day, pulled back with a clip, giving her pause to wring her hands through it like she usually did when it was down. This left her hands nervous and jumpy as she moved through the motions of cleaning up his burn.

His shoulders brought forward, hunched in a way that suggested he was preoccupied with something other than her. As with the partition, she could feel her defenses building up around her, the privacy of the moment feeling like it was being peeled away, the distance between them reaching miles, the static of words left unsaid ringing out over them.

Turning to discard her gloves, she turns only to find him closer than she'd expected, despite not having moved an inch. He'd snuck up on her in more ways than one.

His eyes, although always shifting in colors, had looked impossibly blue staring at her in that moment, a sea between them, and him willing to cross whatever barrier put in place to lean slightly to the side, before capturing her lips.

Her head screamed to stop it, end this. The rational part of her begging to be heard, that this was wrong, she couldn't trust him.

But the pressure of his lips upon her's increased, and before she knew it, her heart had won the argument, leaving her hands to wander as they pleased, finding their home on his cheek, and the other tracing his jaw, leaving no doubt that what he was doing was not something unwelcome.

Her pullback had been unexpected, the need for air winning out over her desire, giving her head time to catch up with what had just happened, her face remaining impassive as the sea of blue continued to engulf her in its waves.

An airy sigh of a laugh escapes her, before lowering her forehead to his. The adrenaline racing through her, giving her a high she hadn't felt in quite a while, the sensation new and shocking, one she hadn't believed possible.

She can feel him smiling through her hands, as her head and her heart continue to rage war with each other.

"What do you want from me Michael?" She asked, a whisper almost as silent as his own voice, left in the open for him to take.

His eyes remained locked on her face, as his thoughts raced with the right words to say. His indecision not something she was used to seeing, but the struggle to pick the right words one she was quite familiar with.

She placed the power in his hands, dropping her own, as he struggled with how to approach what had just happened.

She hadn't expected a favor to come from his mouth, a breathy whisper pleading with her to help, but in that moment, there's very little she probably would've said no to, her hands finding themselves wandering over his face again, the feel of his skin taunting her to reach out and touch him.

"Wait for me," he asked, with sweet promises that things would one day be different, as he buried his hands in her hair, lowering his face to her own, accepting with an ultimatum punctuated with the kiss of his fingers and a sad smile that until then, this was it, her head having won out until the next time.

 _Wait for me._

The words rang out over her as she drove back to her friend's house. The clip of her hair no longer there, free to comb through her hair with a panicked tug. A list of errands, indecision piling up.

 _Call the glass repair guy, pick up snacks for Mike's soccer game next Thursday, reschedule a doctors appointment, reevaluate the last seven years of her life, the most recent offenses, trusting a man who had played her._

A dry sob wracks her thin frame, shaking the steering wheel. She sits outside in the driveway, her head sinking down with a heave, the tears laying tracks down her face, a trail of betrayal marking her cheeks with its regret.

She'd not only moved on, but chosen to do so with the man who was likely behind the reason Michael had been taken from her.

With a huge sigh, prepping herself to go in, she collapses back into her seat, before moving to see her reflection in the rearview mirror, wiping the stray mascara from her eyes, the tell of her breakdown, she moves to go get her son.

"You ready to go?" She asks him, as she escorts the quiet boy back to the car, the days events having exhausted her, and her next move up in the air, but the comfort of her son, safe, with her giving her the strength to at least continue moving.

"He's back, isn't he?" Mike asks from the backseat, her eyes tracking him from the mirror, his forlorn face, and concerned brown eyes taking on her anguish.

"Who, baby?" She says as inquisitively as she can, but she knows he knows. Her quiet, observant little boy has always been able to pick up on her emotions, his relucatance to go back to school after the break in not one of fear, but of concern over her safety. His patience in waiting for her to tell him, only boiling over into a question, he senses her extreme panic.

"Dad," he says, his voice lined with a confidence of someone who knows the answer before its given.

She debates lying, but the thought immediately leaves her with an uneasy feeling. So she pulls over to the side of the road, the foliage reaching out and grasping the car in its reach.

Turning around to face him, she pulls her hair back again.

His eyes never leave her, and instead of the blue seas asking for her to wait for him, it's the ground of the earth, the brown digging for answers. And she can't deny him anything, after losing so much already.

"Yeah, baby. He's back," she says, a sad smile coming to her face, reaching for her phone, and pulling up the video, before handing it over to him.

He watches with rapt attention, as if studying every detail of the man he'd never once met, but spoke of often, carrying his name on his back.

Her fingers come to her lips, as she watches her son take in the revelation, until the sound stops, and the screen goes black.

He glances up at her.

"What do we do now?" He asks, as if formulating a plan himself. "Wait?"

A smile peeks out at his innocent question, his whole life having been a waiting game.

"No," she says, her mind finally made up. "We've waited long enough," she reasons. "Now we do something," she nods, and she sees that same sideways grin from him, the same as his dad's so many years ago.


	7. Chapter 7

He's hunched over the table, his hands splayed across his head, a frustrated, tense look paints his face, his troubled eyes closed tightly.

Walking up behind him, he startles as she places a hand on his shoulder. He'd never flinched from her before, but there were a lot of new traits Michael had acquired in the seven years since she last spent a significant amount of time with him.

For instance, she couldn't say she remembered the way he was always snacking on M&Ms, a pack always in his pocket, sneaking them to Mike whenever she wasn't looking, the loss of anything sweet something he now insisted on always being with him. The salted hair that gave him a peppered look, but still just as soft underneath her hand. His waning eyesight that now required glasses, that he embarrassedly wore as an admittance of defeat, but that she found so incredibly attractive, she often found herself staring whenever he put them on.

But the biggest difference was the frustration that seemed to run through his veins in the moments he found himself having missed out.

There at the table, his elbows framing the device, her iPad, the one she'd offered to him to look at all the pictures of Mike she'd acquired over the years. A collage of the boy's life displayed in front of him, a constant barrage of every single life event, big or mundane, that he'd missed.

"You okay?" She asks, her hand running down his back, gently moving in circles to comfort him.

His hands lower down on the table, but his eyes remained closed, as if blocking the images from further assaulting him with their taunt of all he'd lost.

She peeks over his shoulder at the picture that seemed to have set him off. She's expected it to be their first picture together, the one of her sweaty, hair tangled in a messy bun, a terrified look of adoration gazing down at the small baby boy, a manifestation of the love and grief she'd carried with her from the room she'd believed Michael to have died in to the hospital room of her son's birth. She remembered that photo, Lincoln had taken it, right before she'd offered for him to hold Mike, this giant, muscular man delicately holding his baby nephew, a sight she remembered had her tearing up, wishing Michael was there to see such a thing.

But that's not the photo he has pulled up. This is one of just Mike, a candid she'd snapped after a soccer game just a few months ago. He had been standing on the sidelines, his eyes squinted in the afternoon sun, a contemplative look on his face, and the name SCOFIELD emblazoned on his back, grass stains covering his socks, and the tiniest bit of sweat wetting the hair on his forehead.

A soft smile makes it way across her lips at the image.

"He said he wants to start baseball this season," Michael says in a soft, hurt whisper.

She nods along with him, her hand making its way up to the base of his neck, resting on the fine hairs there.

"Hmm, I wonder why that is," she says with a raised brow at him.

"I umm, I didn't know he liked soccer," he nods towards the picture in front of him.

"Touchy subject, Mr. Baseball," she jokes, but he turns his head towards her, his fallen face emotionally showing the scars of his absence in the swirl of green and blue taking on a cloudy grey, brewing a storm of tears.

"There's so much I don't know," he mutters, in a pleading voice, as if asking to absorb the memories of her mind into his own.

She sits down next to him, grasping one of his hands in her own, an entangled web of limbs crossing to comfort him.

"You'll learn, Michael," she assures him, and he defeatedly shakes his head.

She pulls herself close to him, resting her forehead against his temple.

"I tried, I tried to do what's best for everyone," he admits, bringing his free hand up like a fist beside him, internally beating himself up for things he cannot control.

"I know, I know," she utters into him, her voice rattling his already shaky nerves.

"I just wish I had been there," he says with a sigh, squeezing her hand, her steady presence exactly what he needed right now.

Sara lets out a little laugh.

"You were," she explains. "Every night before bed I'd tell him something about you, even as a baby. You were the last thing he heard about before sleep, and the first thing he asked about when he was old enough to do so."

Michael dips his head, leaving her lips free to leave a kiss on his head.

"You may not have been there, physically. But Mike never believed you wanted to be anywhere else but with him."

Her hand moves to trace the freckle across his temple, her eyes flickering to his lips, the small scar on his cupid's bow moving up and down with every breath as he processed what she'd said.

"I never wanted to be anywhere but with you both," he says, turning to her, his brow furrowed, the sincerity in his voice, wanting to make sure she knew that his place was always with her, his promises of a future before were still something he intended to keep.

"Me too," she says, leaning in to rest her head against him again.


	8. Chapter 8

Michael's brow furrowed as he looked down at the paper, searching around the field, counting each speckle, the sun beating down on him. A particularly muggy day had left him sweating in his long sleeve shirt, but the task at hand too important to give up now.

He thinks of his son, the sweet boy sitting in school, unaware of what's going on right now, his head buried in a book, expanding his already ridiculously smart mind, likely to surpass both of his parents in that area.

Having taken on the role of proud dad, he saw his son's accomplishments as something extraordinary, displaying his artwork on the fridge, and marveling at the fact that while not in his life physically for the first seven years, he was still so much like him.

His looks, that he got from his mother, the auburn-ish hair, the dark eyes, but every once in a while he'd squint a certain way when he was concentrating, and suddenly the Scofield in him would make itself known.

It's those big brown eyes that have him back to focusing on why he's out here in the first place. He checks around him, making sure no one's here to see, old habits of watching his back dying hard when it came to this.

But when he sees what he's looking for, when it clicks, a conspiratorial grin comes to his face, spending a few moments to secure the package before making his way out of the diamond and back home.

It's only when he's safe in the comfort of his home, that he spreads out his legs underneath the coffee table, a display of pencils lining the top, his baby girl settled in his lap, squawking at him, slamming down her hands covered in her own slobber.

"What do you think, Isla?" He whispers into her soft hair, the dark locks falling into her eyes that look oddly familiar whenever he looks in the mirror. A sea of swirling blue that take on a green quality in the right light.

She slams down her hand again, getting the edge of the page wet and sticky. Setting his pencil down, he takes her little hand in between his thumb and pointer finger, the girl having wrapped him around her fingers since her birth and having refused to let her grip loosen even a little bit on his heart.

Sara comes to sit down by him, lowering herself to the floor. Her hands comes out to smooth the girl's hair away from her eyes, and Isla throws herself back at Michael's chest, his hand steadying her around the middle.

"Wild child, today," Sara says with a grin, before pulling her own hair back behind her ears. "So were you successful?" She asks, meeting her question with his own grin.

"He's going to have to start dumbing them down for me," he says with a laugh.

A close mouthed giggle, sounding more like a snort comes from her, her dimples peeking through.

"He's good," he proudly admits, his ego not even slightly bruised, so much as complimented that he helped create such a smart kid. "Like this," he says, grabbing the paper from his pocket. "What do you think _that_ is?"

Sara picks up the paper, twisting it around, before giving up.

"Yeah, good luck with that," she says with another laugh, holding up her hand, stealing an M&M from from the little jar he has sitting on the table, raising a brow at him, and standing back up.

"Want me to take her?" She asks, but he shakes his head, determined to finish his work with his little helper. "Okay," she acquiesces, leaning down to run her hand over his short hair, before placing a soft kiss to his head.

Mike walks in through the door ten minutes later, throwing his bag down, before rushing into the living room.

"So…did you find it yet?" He asks, immediately moving to crouch in front of Isla, reaching for his baby sister, before carefully putting her in his own lap.

Michael makes a show of digging in his pocket, producing half of the missing puzzle, a key, setting it on the table before them.

"Ahh, you're halfway there," Mike exclaims, eyes alight at the chase he's sent his dad on.

Michael can't help but see the irony of him searching for a key, once again, this time unable to figure out where and to what it belongs to.

Over the past year and a half, the maps had become more intricate, leading to multiple finds, and extending the search by days, secrets hidden in every line of the drawing, fake outs and designs disguising the answers.

Michael had thought for sure that Mike would've given up on the idea by now, wanting to quit in favor of something else, the allure and new shine of having his dad around sure to fade eventually. But it hadn't yet, instead, bringing them even closer.

It was their special thing. Even after Isla was born, he set time aside to not only figure out Mike's maps, but to design his own, stretching muscles of his brain, keeping him fresh.

"You want me to show you?" Mike asks, his little face taking on the quiet, eager look that he often had when he looked at him, as if he'd slayed the dragon and hung the moon all at the same time.

"How about just a little hint…" He says in a quiet whisper, pretending he didn't want Sara and Isla to hear that he needed help.

"Okay," Mike says with a toothy smile, scooting closer with the baby to see the drawing he'd made. "See this right here," he points, describing one part of the drawing, being careful not to give it all away.

As Michael listens to his son explain his masterpiece, one that he couldn't figure out for the life of him, he can't help but stare at the little boy. A gift he hadn't been afforded for so long, but now had been given the privilege for the rest of his days. It was the one thing he'd thought about in solitary, what his son was like, what his interests were, was he like him or Sara or a mixture of the two, would he ever forgive him for being away so long? The questions had built up in his mind until they chorused on repeat over and over in his head.

And now, here he was, a couple years later, still mesmerized, still fascinated with a million questions about this boy.

The same boy now holding his baby sister, Michael's heart only multiplying with love for another Scofield in his life.

"Dad?" Mike interrupts him, bringing him out of his reverie, the title still giving him butterflies even after all this time.

"Yeah?"

"Are you even listening?" Mike asks with a raised brow, the gurgling baby reiterating his question.

"Every word, buddy," he assures him. "I'm proud of you."

"You always say that," the boy admits with a smile and a shake of his head, resting his chin on Isla's head.

"Because it's true. I love you, Mike," Michael says, not for the first time today, the codes ceasing to apply anymore, especially when it came to the love of his family. He reaches out and places his hand on the back of his son's head.

"I love you too, Dad," Mike says with a laugh, like a given, no doubt about it, before going back to what he was saying about the map.

A flicker in Michael's peripheral has him looking back, catching Sara standing in the doorway, resting her head against her hand balanced on the wall, an almost dreamy look on her face, waving to him with only a finger.

And Michael can't help but nod in agreement, the disbelief over this being their life, having the ability to just _be_ with his family more than he could've ever dreamt of, let alone expected to find.


	9. Chapter 9

Michael stares out the window of the car, the wind blowing in his face, his arm propped up on the door, fist buried against his cheek. Lincoln weaves through the streets with an air of familiarity that left Michael feeling lost not for the first time this past week.

The transition from Kaniel Outis, wanted terrorist, to Michael Scofield, husband and father, while a welcome change, one he'd been wishing for for seven years, was a role he was unaccustomed to, not for a lack of want so much as a lack of experience.

While Sara and him discussed the future, where they would live being the biggest concern, he found himself faced with reminders of his absence around every turn. The most prevalent one in the form of his son, who after being manipulated by Jacob had grown wary of his presence, understandably so.

He tilted his head out the window to peer up at the sky, the sun beating down on them, his skin covered in the long sleeves of a blue shirt.

"What time are we meeting them?" Lincoln shoots at him, driving with one hand, an ease about him he hadn't seen in quite some time.

Michael turns his head towards his brother, but his arm remains propped up against the window, his long fingers refusing to leave the side of his face.

"One," Michael says, glancing down at the clock. "We've still got some time," he assures him in that quiet whisper. But before they know it, they're pulling up to the park, the one by the water.

Michael gets out of the car, his fingers immediately kneading into his palm, the newness of the situation still not feeling real, even after having seen her this morning before heading out to spend time with Linc. His nerves channeled into the spreading of his fingers, his thumb rubbing circles into the palm of his hand, a nervous tell that Sara's eyes immediately went to upon seeing him, a quirk of her lips allowing him her own tell at knowing all his habits.

She's dressed in a striped dress, hanging down to the ankles, a jean jacket covering her pale skin from the sun, a pair of sunglasses resting atop her head. Her hand rests calmly on the boy's back, as he carries the soccer ball. Standing next to them, Sheba, dressed casually, with a big smile when she sees them walking up.

Lincoln stops, eyeing Michael, knowing full well that this was his doing, but only a shy, knowing smile is answered back.

As his brother approaches her, Michael waits back, glancing around at his surroundings, old habits dying hard.

Mike bounds up to his uncle, interrupting his greeting, tossing around the ball, as if trying to entice him into playing. Instead the three of them make their way to the grassy area, laying down a blanket before Mike runs off to play on the jungle gym, Lincoln quietly sitting with Sheba.

Sara approaches Michael, switching their positions as they sit against the rocky bench, her eyes flitting to Mike's position every few seconds, refusing to let him out of her sight.

"You and Lincoln match," she says with a cheeky smile, referring to the blue they'd both unknowingly changed into before he'd been picked up.

"So do you and Mike," he says, his hand reaching out to trace one of the stripes across her stomach.

"We're like those cheesy families in matching outfits," she teases, her hand coming to rest on the rock, while his fingers intertwine with themselves, a contemplative look on his face at her direct reference to a time long ago. One filled with danger and the unknown, and the knowledge of Mike just percolating somewhere in the back of her mind.

A smile ghosts across his face, wanting nothing more than for that to be true.

"Is this our someday?" He asks quietly, peeking up through his dark lashes into her face, her auburn hair flying every which way in the wind.

She looks down, a slight blush covering her face, before pushing her hair out of her face. A nervous laugh escaping her, before quickly settling, turning her head towards him. Her eyes quickly searching for Mike before settling on the troubled seas he knew were brewing behind his eyes.

He knows she can sense the torture, the longing to fit seamlessly into their lives, the damage still lingering from the events of that asshole, making things more difficult, but not impossible.

"He asked about you this morning," she says, a grin on her face.

"Yeah?" He asks, a flitter of excitement written all over him.

"Wanted to know if you were going to be back in time to go to the park," she nods towards him hanging off the bars. Michael turns around, his son staring at him from his position, as if willing him to come towards him.

Michael quietly smiles to himself, the same one he'd worn so many times before in the presence of Sara, not a cocky one, but one of hope.

"He loves you," she says, her hand finding his two resting in his lap. Her fingers come to rest over his knuckles, scooting closer to him. "Just give him a little time," she whispers sweetly, and he finds himself nodding.

And then she's standing, her hand leaving his hands to find its way to his head, rubbing over it gently, before placing a soft kiss where her hand had just been.

"I'll meet you over there," she says, her flip flops making a popping noise as she walks over to where Sheba is resting comfortably on the blanket, signaling Lincoln to get up, meeting Michael halfway before making their way further up the hill.

From this view they're able to see their family from above, higher ground giving them an advantage, all the light touches casting their family in a glow of freedom he'd been unable to touch before. Instead he'd stayed hidden away in the shadows, catching but mere glances at the ones he loved the most, now free to openly adore them for all to see.

The feelings were still new, the life he was able to have still settling into his new skin, but unwilling to waste anymore of his time.

A sense of comfort washing over him at Lincoln's admission of things working out being just as strange to him as it felt to Michael. Danger having always been just around the corner, paranoia eating him alive, and the safety of his family forever threatened. To finally be able to settle down, live that happily ever after felt like something of a dream, and adjusting to that way of life had him stumbling through the days sometimes.

But the overall feeling was still something of joy. Of freedom. Of love.

He doesn't hesitate to tell his brother as much. No longer encoding his messages, emotions shoved under a thinly veiled threat of danger, instead out in the open, said aloud, forthcoming and unapologetic. No threats, just pure and sincere.

There in front of him, the love of his life, his son, his brother, and the promise of a future. it was more than he could have imagined just a few weeks ago, let alone all those years ago when he's inked his skin with a plan and a hope to save his brother, his only family.

"Can we play now?" He hears Mike ask Lincoln. Sara now tossing the ball back and forth in her hands.

"Sure, Mikey," Lincoln agrees, having just settled down on the blanket.

Michael smiles contently on the hill, right before his family moves to get up.

He straightens immediately when he sees Mike making his way up the hill, ball in hand, sweet brown eyes searching his face.

"Do you want to play?" he shyly asks. His striped shirt not the only thing resembling his mother, as his auburn hair rests across his forehead.

"Sure, buddy," Michael responds, easing the boy's nerves at his answer, a toothy smile making its way to his face instead, his eyes alight with excitement.

They make their way down to the others, a skip in Mike's step as he tosses the ball down onto the ground, and kicks it out to Lincoln and Sheba.

Michael comes to stand next to Sara, and her arm immediately comes to wrap around his waist pulling him closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Mom, Dad, come on!" Mike beckons, and Michael smiles against Sara at the title having been given to him for the first time.

"This is our someday, sweetheart," she whispers, his question from earlier having not escaped her, as they look out at their son playing.


	10. Chapter 10

Michael circles around Sara, their movements habitual, following the same path they do every night. It's only been a few weeks, but they've already settled in a routine. It was something of a steady comfort to them after all those months not knowing where they were going to end up, to know that at the end of the day, they were both going to wind up snuggled into the same bed, wrapped up in each other with nothing but thoughts of the future to drift them silently to sleep.

Sara was still radiating with excitement from the barbecue they'd just hosted, a house warming of sorts that felt domestic in a way she hadn't allowed herself to dream about until recently.

She finds herself sitting in bed, this time before Michael, which was odd, her routine usually taking longer than his. Blaming her scattered mind on the comment that had been thrown her way by her friend, she settles into the sheets, grabbing her lotion, and slowly massaging it over her hands, a luxury she'd picked back up as soon as allowed.

Michael stands by the dresser, his back turned to her, looking like he's taking his watch off, but his muscles tense, his fingers coming to his temple, and she can't help the shot of fear that races through her, scattering goosebumps across her body.

"You okay?" She asks from bed, the once pampering motion of moistening her hands now turned into something more akin to wringing as the nerves take over.

He pauses for a moment, as if preparing himself to face her, and then she turns his head, a soft smile meant to dissipate her fears, instead alerting her to something being off.

"I'm fine," he whispers, lowering his watch onto the dresser, and making his way over to the bed. As he slowly climbs in, she lowers herself down to where she's holding her head up, her elbow resting on the pillow, as he sits towering above her.

Her free hand doesn't waste a second in tracing the veins of his forearm, his favorite game of her's, a ticklish glint always present in his eyes when she does so.

However, tonight the glint is missing, instead worry brewing a storm beneath the surface, the race of blood flowing under the fingertips indicating a change.

"You know, it was pointed out by several people tonight that I'm apparently showing already," she says with a raise of her eyebrow, her thumb rubbing over the bone jutting out on his wrist.

"Hmm," he agrees, distracted.

"You agree then? I'm fat." She throws out trying to catch his attention, all the while her concern growing with his lack of focus…or rather his focus on something else. She can't quite put her finger on what, but he'd been acting different. When he'd come to sit down and eat, he'd answered questions politely enough, but he'd withdrawn, she could see it. Sinking further and further into himself, quietly harboring something, protecting her from a piece of information that was now silently eating away at him.

"What? No," he says with a slight laugh, but it feels forced, not like usual.

Her hand migrates to his face, the slight stubble pricking her fingers, a caution of danger dancing across her fingertips, his eyes flickering to her movement.

"Michael, where are you tonight?" She asks, as he takes a deep breath. His exhale traveling across her arm, as if the weight of the world had somehow climbed onto his back, and his name escaping her lips was his call to come back home.

"I'm right here," he says, eyes focusing on her, his hand making its way to her shirt, slightly pulling it up to examine her statement, before splaying his long fingers across her barely there bump, the first real smile she'd seen since dinner.

Scooting closer, he seemed to wrap her up, his grip tight, as if she were going somewhere, or rather…he was going somewhere. The desperation in his fingertips vibrating down to her womb, the clear turmoil ruminating inside him percolating its way to the surface, bubbling over into her.

"There's definitely a bump," he agrees, the slight curvature barely noticeable to those not looking for it, but the elevation of his hand leaves a smile ghosting across his face.

"He's just eager to see his dad," she says, her belief that this baby was a boy something that only grew with each passing day, call it mother's intuition.

He freezes, his brow knitting together before steeling his expression.

"You're not still insisting we name him Michael are you?" He asks with a cringe, and she can't help the laugh that comes from her at his distaste of her choice.

"It's a good, strong name," She argues, the same argument she's been reiterating for weeks, wanting another Michael Scofield around, only embargoed by the original Michael Scofield's insistence that it was possibly the worst idea ever. Throwing out every name he could think of to try to persuade her otherwise.

She prepares for his rebuttal, his reasons vast and detailed, the conversation usually ending with no clear decision, just two stubborn parents who want what's best for their baby.

But not tonight. She can see it, that storm in his eyes, the one threatening to take him far out to sea, strand him somewhere nowhere near her.

His thumb rubs small circles across her stomach, his eyes transfixed on the motion, eyelashes fluttering with indecision, before he looks up at her.

"I'll agree on one condition…" he leads, not so much defeat shading his stipulation, as pure desperation clouding his thoughts, time racing across his face as if there was no tomorrow, not many more months left to debate this until the birth.

Her hand moves atop his, stilling his thumb, worry completely overtaking her.

"You never call him Junior," he says in complete seriousness. The request not outlandish, knowing how much he disliked the thought of his name, outside of just Scofield, being passed on to his kid. But the use of _you,_ not _we_. That struck her as odd. As if he were writing himself out of this equation before the problem even began.

"Michael," she says with a shaky voice, hoping that she was just reading too much into everything, old habits dying hard, and not witnessing the start of a goodbye.

"Promise me," he says, like a dying wish.

"I promise," she says, as if it were a given. Refusing to deny him anything, the concession of the name screaming at her that something was off.

He nods, his eyes crinkling sadly, as if the thought of a name to go with the child had cemented an answer to a question she didn't even know was being asked.

Sliding down until his head reached the pillow, his hand never leaving where their child rested below.

Her elbow flops down, lowering her head to where his lay, baited breath held between them, the future having seemed so sure just moments ago, its direction now forked, with Michael having chosen a path Sara wasn't even aware existed.

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?" She trepidly asks, her fingers overlapping his, the three of them piled atop each other.

Her forehead leans forward, resting against his own, their noses tickling against each other.

The silence emanating from her, giving her the answer she didn't want to hear.

"I won't let anything happen to you two," he assures her, sealing his promise with a kiss that tastes like a fighting chance, laced with the faith that he wouldn't ever really leave her.


	11. Chapter 11

Sara dices the tomato, the seeds scattering on the cutting board, her fingertips wet from the juice, corralling the pieces to the edge in a big pile. Lettuce and onions already cut and resting in bowls on the counter.

She sets the knife down with a clang, and licks her thumb, before grabbing a towel and wiping the rest of her hand off.

The domestic task nothing new, she'd been making meals for her and Mike since…forever, but the process feels different as she sets the table for a person she never would've believed would be dining with them for the rest of their lives.

She sets the various bowls in the middle of the table with a smile to herself.

It was the first meal she'd made this week, Michael having turned out to be a surprisingly good cook, and having offered to cook almost every night. A skill she shouldn't have been surprised about, the man could do anything and everything, but the first time she'd walked into their kitchen and found him standing by the oven, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, homemade enchiladas sitting before him, the laugh that escaped her was one of pure disbelief.

She remembers moving to wrapping her arms around his stomach from behind, the kiss she'd placed on his shoulder, and the warmth that had radiated from him to her, knowing that he'd done something for them, helped in some way, had him feeling so good he'd apparently made it his nightly mission.

He'd scour the internet for recipes, experimenting in the kitchen, Mike, his shadow, standing nearby, studying him in that quiet way that he always seemed to do with admiration reflecting in his eyes.

Tonight though, Sara had taken over the chore, that Michael saw so wholeheartedly as a privilege, because Mike had had a school project he needed to finish and what had started as a hesitant volunteering on Michael's part to help, had been met with such enthusiasm, that they'd been huddled in his room since he'd gotten home.

"Michael," she calls from downstairs, the name echoing through the halls that were now full of pictures of the three of them, as well as Mike through the years. It was new, but welcome. Domesticity having been a struggle some days for Michael to handle. The stress he put on himself to make the transition smooth sometimes had him stumbling, but recovering with the help and support of Sara, adjusting to this new life.

When she doesn't hear a response, she climbs the stairs, her bare feet creaking the steps as she finds herself approaching her son's room.

Leaning against the doorframe, she finds them in their own little world. Hunched over, across from each other, they communicate in hushed whispers, and fixed stares at the project at hand.

"Michael," she says, catching their attention, both of them looking up at her with that same squinted stare, contemplative, laced with adoration, not quite pulled from their task, but cognitive enough to acknowledge her presence.

Everyone always gushed over how much Mike looked just like her. And it was true, the auburn hair, the brown eyes with hints of green. But Sara also knew that with every stroke of his pencil, every encoded treasure map, every squinted stare, the quiet pensive look wrapped in an intelligence unmatched, that he was a Scofield in all the ways that counted.

And the laugh that bubbles from her chest, her hand coming to calm the bark that she lets out is only found as she's hit with two identical faces staring back at her, sharing a name, and now a bond that started as one of a dream, idolization quickly turning into a warmth and intimacy, extending past DNA and landing somewhere in identical mannerisms not learned but ingrained in an altruism of love.

Michael's eyes twinkle with amusement at her howl.

"Dinner's ready," she says once she's calmed down, pulling her hair back with a silent laugh and a shake of her head.

"We're almost done, Mom," Mike says, excitement tinging his voice.

"We can finish after dinner, buddy. Promise," Michael says, standing up from their position, revealing a complicated string of pieces littering the floor.

Mike stands, and Michael's hand immediately comes to rest on his head on the back of his neck, fingers laced between his hair, a little smile playing on the young boy's lips at the gesture.

"I think I smell tacos," Michael whispers to the boy, and that has him bounding with excitement past his mom.

Michael walks up to her, his hand coming to cradle her chin, that perfect smile of his directed at her, before walking past, leaving her leaning against the doorframe, a blush heating her face like it was the first time he'd laid eyes on her.

"Michael," she whispers to herself, before turning and following after her boys.


	12. Chapter 12

"You sure you have enough on there?" Sara teases, looking at her husband's leaning tower of frozen yogurt, consisting of just about every candy you could imagine, but sprinkled with M&M's on top that he was picking off individually with his fingers, abandoning the spoon.

Michael gives her a grin, as pops another colored candy into his mouth.

"You'd think you were the one pregnant," she says with a teasing lilt, licking her own finger, blueberry flavored.

"There's no such thing as too much, right buddy?" Michael says conspiratorially to his son, whose bowl looked almost identical to his dad's.

"Hmm," the boy says with a big mouthful, sucking on the orange spoon with a goofy smile.

Sara just shakes her head, passing a napkin to Mike.

"Where to next?" Michael asks, the three of them having finished their treat.

Sara pulls her sunglasses down, releasing her hair into her face, as her hand comes to rest on the tiniest little bump peeking through her sundress.

The words only just out of his mouth when they pass by a window, an angelic display of a baby's nursery, as if floating in the clouds.

She can see the excitement dancing in Michael's eyes, always present whenever the subject of their baby came up. He looks at her, silently asking for permission to indulge themselves in everything little Scofield.

Sara nods, and his hand finds its way to the small of her back, while opening the door for the three of them to enter the store.

He's immediately inundated with setups of various themes for nurseries, tiny clothes in soft colors, and contraptions he's not even 100% sure what their function is, his brain wracking itself for explanations.

Mike reaches out, his fingers gliding across an infant sock that made even his small hand look large.

"Mom, was I ever this small?" He asks her, wonder in his voice, like the idea seemed like an impossibility.

Sara can sense the moment Michael stills, and almost flinches at the question, the thought of having missed a time when Mike was small enough to fit into that size.

Even after all this time, he still refused to forgive himself for not being there, which only seemed to be exacerbated with the new baby, as he stood both determined to do it right this time, and the internal struggle that he was unable to the first time.

"Yeah, baby, you were," she says with a sad smile.

She's quick to reach out to Michael, her hands running smooth circles over his back, and he glances back at her with a smile that doesn't quite convince her he's okay.

Wandering through the store, she becomes overwhelmed with how much stuff a baby needs, infancy with Mike a hazy blur of adoration and grief that she feels she was almost not witness to herself. Too present with her son, dedicated to making his life normal and loved, never stopping to take a moment and reflect.

To reflect was to remember, and to remember was a dark hole of sadness that she had refused to sink into like quick sand, one thought quickly leading to a deluge of memories that would ultimately suffocate her into not functioning.

"Mom, what is…this?" Mike asks, picking up what looked like nothing more than a really long, wide scarf, covered in various designs.

"That would be a baby wrap, young man," chimes in a saleswoman having tracked them down from the entrance. Her eyes immediately locking onto Michael, despite talking to Mike, and Sara bites back a laugh at the woman, not even the least bit jealous.

Mike steps back a bit into Michael's space, leaning up against his legs, his head coming to knock against his stomach. His long fingers immediately coming to comfort his son, wrapping around his chest to tuck him close.

"Would you like to try it on?" The woman asks.

"Do you want to try it, Sara?" Michael asks in his usual whisper, a crooked grin coming to his face, as he makes eye contact with her over the woman.

"I think she's asking _you_ ," Sara says, amusement tinged in her tone.

"Yeah, yeah, it's great for dads, you just…" she says, producing a doll out of nowhere, and beginning to strap it around Michael.

"You know, I think I remember how that works," Sara says, stepping in, a hand on Michael's shoulder, her brow raised towards him.

"Oh, okay," the saleswoman says, awkwardly backing away.

He smiles in thanks, as she begins wrapping the material, up, around, and across, her fingers lingering and Michael's grin turning into a full blown smile by the end. The all too familiar scene of her wrapping him up, usually with bandages, this time with something that would help him carry their child. The nostalgia isn't lost on her, and when both his hands come to rest on her wrist and forearm after she finishes tying the knot, she smiles down at the gesture.

Glancing over she sees Mike's big brown eyes looking up at them, she coughs before taking a step back, pushing her hair behind her ears.

"How do I look?" Michael asks.

"Like our Dad," Mike chimes in with a shrug.

A wispy look clouds his eyes, as they flitter from Mike, to her face, to her stomach, the love he has for them never wavering, the comment removing a tiny bit of the guilt he carried around with him.

Sara nods her head in agreement of Mike's observation.

Although he didn't just look the part, his actions were there to back the title.

 _Dad._


	13. Chapter 13

Sara stirs from her spot on the bed, the days excitement having stolen all her energy, leaving her collapsing into bed with a well deserved nap. Her last waking moments before falling into slumber is the soft wisp of her husband's breath against her ear, his arm wrapped around her from behind, the long fingers splayed across her expanding stomach. Her hand tightly gripping his forearm, his sleeves having been rolled to the elbow, exposing a spider's web of veins for her to trace until sleep at had taken over, a smooth path for her fingers to trail until her eyes succumbed to the rest her body was demanding.

Rolling over onto her back, her hands immediately come to her stomach, like a magnet drawing her nearer still, bringing a smile to her face as the sheets rustled beneath her.

Swinging her legs to the side, she maneuvers herself into a sitting position before planting her feet on the ground, her view soon to be skewed from their growing son.

 _Son._

The word felt so new and shiny, the semblance of their reality becoming clearer each time the thought of her son crossed her mind. Her vision of the child blurred with only hopes of what it might look like. The reveal of it being a boy giving more defined lines in her head of the sketch she'd scrawled up in her head.

The swirling blue, green of Michael's eyes materializing onto their child, the dark hair contrasting with her lighter skin, giving life to a vibrant little boy that she was sure would have them both wrapped around his little fingers.

But the smile dropped from her face as she trudged down the stairs, pulling her hair back from her face, Michael nowhere to be found.

He'd been particularly quiet about the news, his eyes squinting into something of contemplation, before a close-mouthed grin had lit up his face, squeezing her hand, as she'd cried with a ear splitting smile.

Checking from room to room, she finds them empty, one by one. The panic rising in her chest. The danger having slithered back into its hole, refusing to drag them back into the mess. A normal life having been granted to them the past few months. Neighborhood barbecues, quiet nights with books littering their laps, teasing each other over laundry, and dishes being split into wash and dry by the two of them. They were the epitome of your typical family expecting their first child.

But the threat always loomed in the back of his mind. What threat, she didn't know. But some days she couldn't help notice him look over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at strangers that approached her, his hands coming to her stomach, shielding their _son_ from what could be danger.

As the anxiety spiked through her, her hands working themselves through her hair, she begins to call out for him, when she approaches the last room. The nursery.

"Michael," she says with a sigh of relief.

Sprawled in front of her is her husband, a tangle of papers littering the floor, the bare room echoing the strokes of his pencil underneath the hardwood floor. He's hunched over, legs criss crossed beneath him, as the heel of his palm comes to the temple of his head.

Quietly approached him, her hand skims the top of his head.

"Michael," she says again, this time catching his attention, having been wrapped up in concentration.

He glances up at her, a tentative grin with worried eyes staring back at her, and he moves to rest his head against her leg.

"What's this?" She asks, using him to steady her balance as she lowers herself into a sitting position, and he worriedly grabs onto her, hovering between getting up to help, and precariously balancing on his own sore, unsteady limbs.

"I thought I'd get a head start on the baby's room," he says, almost shyly, quickly glancing over at her, unsure of her response.

She looks closer, intricate sketches are scattered before her of the room, from the crib to changing table, to a rocker in the corner, and a picturesque mural on the wall.

"This is —"

"If you don't like it, we can do something else," he quietly whispers to her, setting down his pencil, pushing up the errant sleeve that had somehow managed to unroll onto his forearm.

Her fingers come out to trace the lines of the sketch, the graphite rubbing off on her hands, leaving the tiniest of smudges to the sketch. Her imperfection leaving her own touch to the room.

"Yeah, it's terrible," she says, retracting her hand and crossing her arms across her chest.

She knows he senses her sarcasm, as the hand resting on his head, taps his skin gently with a smile, before tilting his face towards her, and she cracks. Raising her brow at him, her smirk giving a teasing glint to her eyes.

"Did anyone ever tell you how good of an artist you are?" She asks, glancing down at the now unmarked skin that had once been a canvas for the most elaborate of tattoos she'd ever seen.

That earns her a laugh, his hand lowers from his head to grab her own.

"I might have heard something like that before."

"He's gonna love it," she whispers, placing her head down on his shoulder. "I can see it now."

" _He.._ ," he whispers almost to himself, as if the news is still sinking in. "Auburn hair, brown eyes," he continues.

And she can't help but nod, feeling similarly, despite the different images that they've conjured up of their son, not missing the similarities of what they both wished for.

"I want…" he starts, and she stills against him, unsure of where this is going. "I just want him happy," he says, the ghosts of his childhood shiver through him onto her, the stories of his past having long since been discussed.

"He will be," she assures him, squeezing his hand the same way he'd done earlier at the appointment. A silent promise that things would be different with their kid.

"I guess this means you get your wish," he teases, nudging her gently.

She smiles against his shoulder at her small victory.

"Just…just promise me you won't call him _Junior_ ," he says with a visible cringe.

She laughs against him, raising her head to look into his eyes, the swirl she hopes is passed onto their son staring back at her.

"I promise, no Junior," she agrees with a smile.


	14. Chapter 14

The salty air blows the slightly curled auburn locks of Sara around her face. The calla lily resting carefully in her hands, the stem smooth beneath her palms. Staring out in front of her, the sun resting on the horizon of the ocean, the palm trees becoming nothing more than shadows in the silhouette of the setting she'd selected.

"Mama," she hears, her daughter Isla standing in the waves, her little sundress dancing in the wind, as infectious giggles escape her.

With a smile, she tucks her hair behind her ear, proving to be ineffective, the wind having other ideas.

Approaching the girl, who was only a few feet ahead of her, she sees what she's so fascinated with. Her little feet have been buried, as the waves crashed against her ankles.

"I'm sinking," she laughs, staring up at her mom, the blue of her eyes reflecting more than the green in the soft glow of the sun on the water.

Mike having abandoned the idea of remaining clean, instead was crawling around on his knees, creating a sand castle that has Sara both impressed and shaking her head at the wet, sandy marks on his white shirt, his hair hanging in his eyes, using his forearm to swipe it out of his way as he concentrates.

"Where's Daddy?" Isla asks, squinting at Sara with the same look as Michael. The similarities between their looks, identical, but her personality wavering more towards her, while Mike, the opposite.

"Uncle Linc should be bringing him down any minute," she assures her, Mike's attention caught at the mention of his dad. The teenager having grown incredibly close to his father through the years, almost inseparable.

"Do you think he knows?" He asks with a quiet grin, either convinced that his dad had figured it out, or impressed with her that she'd been able to pull this off.

The suggestion of a family vacation to the beach had seemed innocent enough. Little did Michael know that among the sand castles and basking in the sun, she'd had an ulterior motive, one that required them to be on a certain Florida beach, the same one she'd become a Scofield for the very first time.

"I hope not—" She answers, quickly interrupted by Isla.

"Daddy!" She squeals, trying to dig herself out of the sand, her wet feet then covered again in dry sand, as she runs in her dress, her dark hair trailing behind her, as she attaches herself to Michael's leg.

Michael's eyes show a glint of amusement, as she casts a glance towards Sara, walking crookedly with his little girl refusing to let go.

Lincoln pats him on the back, as the minster approaches from the other side of the beach.

"You knew," Sara says as he meets her, her hand coming out to rub his head.

He leans in close, his mouth touching her ear to speak in his usual whisper over the waves.

"If you want to keep a secret, don't tell Linc," he says, and she tilts her had back with a laugh.

"What'd you say?" Isla asks, tugging on his pants, big eyes begging to be in the know.

Michael's hand comes to tangle in her hair.

"I said, 'My girls looks beautiful,'" he says with a smile down at her.

"You do too, Daddy," she innocently reciprocates.

The comment having both her parents laughing at her sweet compliment.

"So you ready to do this again…again?" She asks, the humor of the moment not lost on either of them.

"How many times are you going to marry me?" He jokes matter of factly, the only sure way to deal with the events of the past.

"Well, we didn't have Isla at the last one," she argues with a smile, her hand running down the collar of his white shirt, matching Mike.

"Ahh," he says. "We needed all the Scofields."

Sara leans in, bringing him closer while tugging on his shirt, meeting his lips in a quick kiss.

"Mmhmm," she hums against him.

"Uhh, I think you're supposed to wait to do that," Mike chirps in, approaching them with Lincoln, his uncle giving a sly smirk at the comment.

"I don't think that matters if they're already married, Mikey."

Sara glances around, her family surrounding her. The last time they stood here, she was pregnant with Mike, their future seemed so bright, so sure. Their happily ever after having been postponed for the next seven years, shrouded in grief. But as they stood there, their family intact, and the future looking just as bright as all those years ago, she can't wait to renew the assurance that marrying Michael was the best thing she'd ever done, here, surrounded by…

all the Scofields.


	15. Chapter 15

The first time Sara saw it, she thought Mike had been making a mess. Walking down the stairs of their house, quickly, the goldfish on the windowsill on the landing in the middle of the steps, her eyes crinkled in confusion.

Balancing on her toes, she peeked over the white ledge to see twenty or so goldfish crackers lined up, some upside down, some right side up, and in varying amounts of space between them. Pushing her hair back with a smile of laughter, she shook her head at her son, and scooped them up in her hand, before tossing them into the trash.

The next time she saw it, she tripped over M&Ms that had been carefully sorted into two different colors, red and blue, lined up in a similar way to the goldfish. This time their place had been next to couch, in plain view, and right where she'd kicked them with her barefoot, scattering most of them across the rug, hitting the hardwood and making little tinkering clinks as they skipped.

"What in the world?" She asks, as she bends down, melted chocolate dotting her big toe. On her hands and knees, she crawls around the room, gathering the candy into her hand, this time opting to drop them on the counter for further questioning.

That night at dinner, Michael twirls his pasta with his fork, his fingers dexterously balancing the fork between them, as he makes a display of gathering as much spaghetti on his fork, Mike's quiet stare at the feat from next to him.

And it's not long before their son begins doing the same, a grin peeking out of the side of Michael's mouth at Sara, witnessing the way Mike seemed to follow suit most of the time.

Sara clears her throat, catching both Michaels' attention, before depositing the M&Ms on the table from her palm with a questioning title of her eyebrows at Mike.

The boy remains stoic, only glancing over at his dad.

Sara's prepared to ask what was with the food, when Michael begins speaking.

"So you're the culprit. i had been wondering where my M&Ms had been sneaking off to," he says with a laugh.

Sara balks back.

"No, I tripped over these in the living room," she explains, her hand coming to rest under her chin.

"Yeah, that's where I left them," he says slyly.

"Michael," she says with a laugh, unable to even fathom why.

He just shrugs.

The next time, she's putting away laundry in Mike's room, when she sees macaroni elbow noodles arranged on his desk.

Her fingers comes to place her hair behind her ear, before resting on her lips, trying to figure out what it was her husband and son were up to.

The two of them had become close, almost inseparable since Michael's reappearance in their life. They seemed to speak to each other with just a look, and apparently, a display of random foods scattered through their house.

She'd be jealous if she wasn't so pleased that she had her family back, the bond they had, one that she knew they'd share had they ever met. The similarities in their personality too strikingly familiar that it was impossible that paired with the unwavering love, they'd be anything but close.

That night, she sat on the couch, feet tucked up next to her a book balanced in one hand, as her fingers played with her lips as she read.

Flipping the page, she sees Michael come into the room out of the corner of her eye.

Sitting down next to her, his hand comes to rest on her feet, and she smiles down at the book.

"Give me your hand," he says in that quiet whisper of his.

She gives him a curious eyes, before placing her book down and opening her hand slowly, cautiously.

He laughs at her hesitance, before his knuckles, holding something in his fist, come to meet her palm, depositing its content onto her hand.

As he removes his hand, she sees seeds.

"Michael, what—"

He holds up his pointer finger, as if all will be revealed soon.

In the space on the couch between them, he begins arranging the seeds in the same similar pattern she's found the other snacks throughout the house.

When he gets them arranged in the way he wants them, he looks at her, his eyes flickering with mischief.

"Mike asked me about us, how we met," he explains.

"So you created your own language," Sara says, as if that made perfect sense. "Michael Scofield, you never do anything simply."

His laughter has his eyes squinting with lines sparking off the side, roots of his amusement towards her.

"Break the code, get the story," he teases.

Sara leans forward towards him.

"I know the story, Scofield," she jokes back in a whisper mimicking his own, before looking down at the seeds.

Her eyes flicker between the message and Michael's finger tapping on her foot as she focuses. Until the light goes off, and she shakes her head.

"Dork," she announces looking back up at him.

"Too much?" He asks, and her forehead collapses against his shoulder with laughter.

"I love you too," she whispers into him, the rose seeds scattering on the couch, as they're shaken from their spot with the movement, awaiting the next message relaying the story of them to their son.


	16. Chapter 16

Sara can hear their voices down the hall, the soft cadence of her son reading out loud. The image one that she'd found countless times since Michael had come back. The two of them hunched up at the headboard, a giant book nestled on the lap of Mike, as he read to his dad, Michael laughing at all the appropriate parts, genuinely enthralled in the story of a boy wizard that had escaped death.

They'd read a few chapters a night, sometimes Sara would join them at the foot of the bed, sprawled across, head resting on her propped up elbow, the whispery sound of her boys reading together, lulling her to sleep. But tonight, she stood in her room, undressing for bed, going through her routine.

Catching her reflection in the mirror, the scars dancing across her back, shining in the light, weaving together to mark the story of her. Her fingertips come out, wrapping around her to touch their raised surface, before pulling back like they'd burned her.

Shaking her head, she puts her tank top on, crawling into bed, the sting no longer present from their pain, unable to be hurt any longer from that time of her life, but the memories still remained.

Her eyes shut tightly, as she zeroes in on the voices down the hall.

It's not until she feels a dip in the bed, a pair of unusually cold feet hitting her legs, does she drearily turn around, a swirl of blue and green hitting her drowsy hazel.

"How many chapters did you get through?" She asks, as his arm working to wrap around her, the crook of his elbow hovering closely to her lips, as a quirk of a smirk comes upon his mouth.

"Four," he says sheepishly, and she smiles, not knowing what's cuter, that he can't say no to their son when he begs for one more chapter or that they're both so equally into the books that it could've been Michael that kept their son up for one more.

The light hitting the crease of his elbow just enough, a glistening scar shining at her, the same way hers had done before. The map of Michael's scars something she'd long since memorized, run her fingers over every new line, inked or otherwise. This one was in the shape of a circle, raised when he bent his arm, smooth to the touch, and thinner than the skin around it. A delicate patch of skin that marked him.

Her thumb moves to settle in the healed wound, the size of a quarter, cradling the pad of her finger, a key to the past that she'd unlocked.

The seven years he'd been gone had left him different than before, not just physically, but emotionally. He had an edge to him, never with her, never with Mike, but towards life in general. No one could go through what he did and come out of the other end unchanged. The cynicism he'd met her with had seemed to transfer itself to him, his optimism seemingly only present when it came to their family. Each passing day, he showered off the grime of the past, embedding itself in the scars as the water ran down his form.

It was a process they were still working through. Not having to look over the shoulders for the next sign of danger.

Making her way down his arm, she pushes his shirt up, her fingers tickling his skin to find the jagged scar she'd been looking for, the one that looked a bit like lightening running through him. The one that had marked him for death, almost taking him away from her for good this time. The same one that had brought her across the world to see him, to heal him, that required her blood to become his own.

"Always sewing me back together," he whispers against her, as her thumb strokes back and forth over the scar.

"I almost lost you," she quietly mutters, and his hand moves from her back to her chin, titling her face up to him, his lips touching her own, only just.

"'Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect,'" He says, the words punctuated as whispers across her lips, the airy breath seeping into her, sealed with a kiss.

"Did you just quote Harry Potter to me?" She laughs.

"Maybe," he says with a goofy grin. "But it's true."

And it was, the path of their scars had guided them back to each other.


	17. Chapter 17

Michael sat in bed, his wife next to him, both of them a book in hand, the glow from the table lamps on their nightstands illuminating their faces as the words on the page came alive. He'd made quick work of acquiring more baby books than any one person needed, and had been slowly making his way through them one by one.

He was careful to pay attention to the details, filing them away for later use. Each new fact both exciting and terrifying, and he often found himself glancing over at Sara's stomach, trying to imagine what it would be like once she started actually showing.

Sara must have seen him peeking at her, because she sets her book down, reaching over with her hand to the top of his head, moving to settle at the base of his neck.

"That's probably enough for tonight," she tells him gently, knowing that he was overwhelming himself with the looming future.

"Maybe I'll just switch over to this," he says, pulling out a name book from the stack on his nightstand. This one was thicker than the rest, and had yet to be cracked open by him yet.

A smile comes to her face as she glances at the title.

"I already have a boy named picked out," she says matter of factly, and his eyes dance with amusement at that. She hadn't said a thing before this.

"Well, are you going to tell me?" He asks with a slight laugh to his question, a smile lighting up his face.

"Michael," she says, and he squints his eyes at her, almost begging for the answer.

"Come on, you have to tell me eventually," he teases, and she just shakes her head, her hair falling from behind her ear and dangling in her face.

"No, the name is Michael," she answers, and he knows his face immediately drops, and probably contorts into something disapproving.

"After me?" He asks, confused by her choice.

That has her laughing, but he sits with his brow furrowed.

"It's a good, strong name," she tries to convince him. "And the namesake isn't bad either," she says with a guilty, close mouthed smile that has the green flecks in her eyes twinkle.

"There's gotta be something better," Michael cringes, tearing open the book, flipping to the first page of boys names he finds. "Here, umm, what about—"

"Michael," Sara points to the name on the page that he'd happened to have turned to.

His hand comes up to his temple, closing his eyes tightly.

"I will find something better," he insists.

xxxxx

"What about Luke," He says as he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, Sara sitting at the kitchen island, eating a strawberry. Her stomach had grown, their baby having been announced as a boy just days before.

Her finger comes to wipe at her lip, the juice from the fruit threatening to drip down her chin.

"It's a little close to Linc, don't you think?" She asks, licking her finger with a smile.

"And Michael isn't a little close to…Michael?" He jokingly argues, as he mentally scratches off another name on his never-ending list of names.

She doesn't even dignify his argument with a response, instead reaching for another strawberry, her stomach pushing up against the island, and Michael can't help but smile at her, despite her stubborn stance on the issue at hand.

"How about Frank, after your dad?" Michael suggests, not fond of the name, but willing to take anything at this point.

Her head shakes, mouth full.

"I loved my dad, but his name sounds like a serial killer or something."

Michael heavily sighs, grabbing his keys from the basket by the door.

Leaning in, he kisses her softly, the taste of strawberries lingering on her lips.

"I will keep trying," he whispers, and she smiles against him.

His hand comes to her stomach, so big now that his palm couldn't even splay across the expanse of it anymore.

"Bye baby," he says, Sara's hand coming to rest over his.

xxxxx

"River is kind of cool," he suggests, as a very pregnant Sara walks next to him, her arm tucked into his, and their pace slow and steady, as to not to wear her out.

"Fox River," she says, bringing her head to his shoulder.

"Well that is where we met," he reasons, a grin coming to his face, and he can see her looking at him with the same grin.

"Next you'll be suggesting Chicago as a good option," she teases, nudging him with her elbow.

He raises an eye, willing to accept that as a compromise if she'd allow it.

She shakes her head no.

His face falling to the fate of their son being named after him.

She stops walking, causing him to face her, a confused look on his face, as the people around them continue moving.

"Why don't you want him to be named after you?" She asks him seriously, studying his eyes, waiting for an honest answer for why he'd been fighting so hard against what she seemed to have decided the moment she found out she was pregnant.

He dips his head, taking her hands into his.

"Why do you want him to be named after me?" He asks, his voice taking on a self-deprecating tone that has her angling her head to see his eyes that he was trying to keep hidden.

"You're smart, and sweet, and loyal, and altruistic," she begins listing traits that he's ready to dispute, his demons whispering at him that none of that was true. "You're the best person I know who is going to be the best Dad. Plus, I just like it," she shrugs.

Glancing up at her, he sees how sincere she was in her explanation, her reasons sound and although he didn't necessarily agree, to have someone think that fondly of him, to want their son to have the traits she hoped they'd share…it didn't seem all that crazy.

"Promise me something," he whispers in a hoarse voice.

She tilts her head at him.

"You won't call him Junior," he says with a cringe, giving in to her request of the name Michael.

Her face lights up, a radiant smile to match the sunlight streaming down on them.

"I promise."

xxxxx

Michael's handed the tiny baby into his arms, the little boy he'd been dreaming of for the past nine months, wrapped in a blanket, so small and perfect he was sure his heart would burst.

It was then, standing by his wife, a smile refusing to be wiped away from her lips, and their son snuggled into his arms, an identical replica of his mother, he knew that this baby was without a doubt a Michael Scofield.


	18. Chapter 18

It had been a few weeks since they had settled into their new house in Chicago, as New York just didn't quite feel like home after everything that had happened. A move had been exactly what they needed.

They'd been hesitant to yank Mike out of school, but he was eager to see the place where both of his parents had grown up, and a fresh start sounded ideal in the wake of the truth being revealed.

Sara was still adjusting to the new home, not quite sure where she'd unpacked everything, a few boxes still scattered about, and more than a few stubbed toes healing after running into tables during late night walks to the bathroom or for a drink of water.

Michael seemed to be more at ease in his transition back into a relatively normal life with his old surroundings comforting him.

Standing on her toes, she reached for the top shelf in the kitchen, a pan she needed waiting for her several inches away. Her hair tumbled down, hitting the small of her back, and and plaid shirt moved up her stomach, exposing a sliver of skin.

She feels his fingers on her skin before she hears him coming, his warm hands scorching her skin, as he easily reaches up and grabs what she had been reaching for.

He wears a silent grin, his eyes twinkling at her with amusement, before stepping back, taking his hand from waist, and she instantly feels the absence of warmth from the loss of contact.

"Thanks," she says, a blush heating her defined cheekbones, as she yanks her shirt down.

He backs up to the island, leaning against the counter. She can feel his eyes, his gaze hitting the back of her head.

"What are you up to?" She asks, moving around the kitchen to get the ingredients she'd need for dinner tonight.

"About to go pick up Mike from school," he announces, and she nods with a smile.

"He'll be excited about that," she says, and he shyly looks down, still in awe at his role of Dad. He was slowly gaining confidence in his abilities, but his love never wavering for the boy that he'd adored since the moment he found about him.

Stepping over near him, she leans against him as she reaches for a wooden spoon. Her hair brushes against his face, and something catches his eye, as she reaches out to hold her still.

His long fingers move to the dip in her shirt, using his index finger to trace the chain she was wearing, lightly pulling up, causing the metal to slide against her chest, sending goosebumps all over her body.

"What's this?" He asks in a soft whisper, before pulling the object attached to the chain up to reveal his wedding ring from before.

"I uhh, I found it when I was unpacking," she says, her palm coming to support the ring in her palm, as her stares down at the object.

"You kept it," he says, but it almost comes out as a question, both shock and awe heard in his voice. Like he couldn't believe she had actually held on to it.

"I wore it for a long time," she says with a smile, a quiet laugh attached.

He seems to sense what she meant, moving to her own index finger, the one that always seemed to have some sort of ring before, and he closes his eyes, as if picturing the last time he'd worn that ring. She had to admit, it seemed like a lifetime ago, and in a sense, it had been.

"I figured I'd wear it around my neck until…you were ready to wear it yourself," she says, almost shyly, tucking her long hair behind her ear.

He closes her hand, forming a fist around the ring resting in her palm, before covering it with his own fist.

"It looks good on you," he admits, and she nods in agreement. That ring having been constantly twirled on her finger whenever she had been particularly anxious or scared during her pregnancy.

"It would probably look better on my finger though," he says with a smirk, his charm worming its way into a smile from her.

"You want it back?" She asks, holding it up, her eyes wide at the significance.

"How about you keep that one," he says, letting the chain drop back down her shirt. "And we get new ones this time around. Fresh start and all."

"Are you asking me to marry you, Michael Scofield?"

"Yes."


	19. Chapter 19

The salty breeze whips her auburn hair around her face, both her hands coming to push the wild strands behind her ears. The sun beats down all around them, the umbrella above their table shielding very little of the actual rays of light from hitting her pale skin.

Her finger traces the grain of the wood, the picnic like table littered with names and messages scrawled in permanent ink, overlapping each other, blending into one another, each one screaming for it own attention before it was written over, weathered into the wood.

She doesn't hear Michael approach until he sets her boat of tacos in front of her, a glint of amusement in his eyes, as he lifts his legs to get into his seat, setting down his own food in front of him.

"Thanks," she says with a smile, digging in before he's even settled. Cheese falling from the tortilla and spilling into the boat with her remaining taco.

"Good?" He asks with a laugh.

"Yeah," she says with a grin, balancing the last bite of the taco in one hand, as she covers her mouth with the other, only slightly embarrassed at how quickly she'd nearly polished off the first one.

"I'm just glad you have your appetite back." The morning sickness having hit her hard the past couple of months, his worried eyes always roaming over her, as his hand comfortingly rubbed her back, feeling helpless as he watched her suffer.

"I know, I'm so sick of ginger ale and crackers," she nods, using her two fingers, and a tilt of her head back to eat the last bite, before reaching for the second one. Michael just now taking his first bite.

"So how'd I do?" He asks, and she looks at him with a puzzled look, using her index finger to pick up stray cheese, before licking her finger.

"For our first date," he teases with a knowing look in his eye.

Sara laughs, her hands pushing at the wooden table, her hair blowing in her face.

"And here I thought our first date was our wedding," she gets out through her laugh.

"No," he says, almost affronted that she was considering that to be anything close. "It's definitely right here, right now," he declares, his finger hitting the table with a point.

"You still owe me that steak, Scofield, don't think you're getting out of that," she says pointedly, with a toothy smile directed at him.

His finger comes up again, about to make a goofy point, she can tell from the smile playing on his lips.

"I believe the meat in that taco is steak."

Her eyes roll comes with a grin, and her face collapses into her hands in a boisterous laugh.

"That's doesn't count," she says shaking her head, unable to keep a straight face.

"Technically, that is steak," he says matter of factly.

"Just eat your taco, smarty pants," she teases, gesturing towards his full boat.

The eat in comfortable silence, before a woman with a baby walks by, and Sara doesn't miss the warm smile that comes to Michael's face upon seeing her.

"That'll be us soon," she says, catching his attention.

"I can't wait," he says in a whisper so genuine, she knows there's nothing he wants more.

"Me too," she agrees, reaching out to grab his hand their wedding rings glistening in the sun, hovering above the the names inked into the table, their promises just as permanent, entwined with each other. Their looming future filled with more dates and a baby.


	20. Chapter 20

Michael comes in through the front door, a long day back at work, but a satisfying one. He'd contemplated finding something else do, something more relaxing perhaps. But his mind refused to let him rest, and instead demanding it be stretched for answers.

He didn't mind, enjoying the time he could helping to solve problems and come up with configurations that others stared at in awe. It was what he did best, but it wasn't what he lived for.

No, that was reserved for when the clock struck five, refusing to put in late nights, instead almost racing home.

He rolls up his sleeves, as he makes his way into the house, finding Sara sitting in the living room, still on maternity leave. Isla has her back up against her mom's stomach, a gurgling, drooling little girl whose arms flail at Sara's excited, _"Daddy's home,"_ echoing through the house, meeting Michael's ears, bringing a soft smile to his face.

He holds his hands out, reaching for the baby, who snuggles into his neck, as she breaths in her distinct infant smell, Sara getting up from her spot, a quick kiss exchanged, almost as if a habit, a ritual they'd implemented long ago, instead of a relatively new routine they'd established.

"He's already waiting for you," Sara says with a grin, her hand coming to rest on Isla's back, as she walks into the kitchen to check on dinner.

Michael climbs the stairs with Isla in tow, reaching Mike's room.

Every night for the past month, the two of them had been working endlessly on Mike's science project. Stealing time when they could, before and after dinner, and then on the weekends when they weren't at Mike's baseball practice.

"It's looking good, bud," Michael says from the doorway, Isla gurgling in agreeance, causing Michael to turn towards her little head resting on his shoulder, his long fingers, wrapping in her soft, dark hair.

Mike looks up from his project, a small smile on his lips at his dad's compliment, before squinting back at his work.

"I just have to add the support," he says in a quiet whisper like voice that sounds all too familiar to the older Scofield. "We can probably start testing it this weekend," he says, hesitantly, as if he's not quite sure.

"Let me see," he walks further into the room, staring over at the blueprints for the bridge that Mike had worked out himself, Michael having only helped with the calculations. Piece by piece, they'd put together the structure. Mike believing that they had worked on it together, but really, it had been mostly him, Michael just lending encouragement and a pointer here and there.

Bending down to his knees, he turns Isla over to where she can see Mike, his son immediately grabbing onto her little hand, making cute faces at the girl, whose eyes grew wide at the sight.

Inspecting the structure with one hand, he finds himself laughing at the interaction.

"Are you helping, Isla?" Mike asks her, shaking her hand as if it were her way of agreeing to such a task.

Michael brings his lips to the tuft of her hair, leaving a kiss on her head.

"I think you're right, Mike. You're just about done," he says. A flicker of accomplishment sparking in the ember of his son's amber eyes.

These were the moments he was living for. The ones he'd fought tooth and nail to get home to. A surge of pride rumbling in his chest at all that not even he had accomplished, but rather the things his kids would succeed at.

His optimism had wavered here and there, but for the most part, it had continued burning from the moment he'd inked his skin. Often sacrificing his own happiness for the greater good, sure that if only his family were safe, he could die fulfilled.

"Oh wow, baby," he hears Sara behind them, coming up to rest her hand on both of their heads.

It was only in his wildest dreams that he would be there to witness such a feat. But here was, helping his son with a science project, holding his daughter, with his wife standing with him.

"You guys did good," Sara says, his hand slipping to Michael's neck, while planting a kiss where her hand was on Mike's head.

"Yeah, we did," Michael agrees, meeting her eyes, a knowing look passing between them.

It had been a long time coming, but he could finally, contently, say that this was what he'd been fighting for, a moment just like this one, and all the future ones to come.


	21. Chapter 21

One of front wheels of the shopping cart spins wildly, offering absolutely no function, surrendering the job up to the other three wheels as Michael pushes it through the aisles.

Mike's hand rests on the side of the cart, his fingers looped through the holes, as he quietly contemplates the selections on the shelf. His mouth is pursed in concentration, his head tilted back to look at all his options.

"Which ones do you like better?" Mike asks, looking over at his dad, who watches on with rapt fascination at even the most mundane of tasks, seeing it as time well spent with his son.

"Your mom likes the peanut butter ones," he says, gesturing to the orange bag in front of him.

He turns back to the shelf, his hand coming out to select one, hesitating between the orange bag and the yellow bag.

Michael abandons the handle of the cart, moving to stand next to him, leaning down a bit, his face coming to rest by his son's.

"You can get both," he whispers with a smile, causing a bit of excitement in the boy, grabbing both bags, and gently placing them in the cart, as Michael resumes pushing, a bit of a skip to the boy's step as they move on to tackle the next choice.

As they make their way to the cereal aisle, boxes lined up, all threatening to spill over onto them, Mike looks up at him shyly.

"Dad?" He asks, casting his eyes down.

"Hmm," Michael responds, curious as to what's on his mind

"Did you…did you always love Mom?" The question throwing Michael off, the story of him and Sara having long since been relayed to his son, a game of sorts in code, sparing him the grisly details.

Michael laughs, thinking back to how they first met, when he was all charm and wit, as if playing a script in is head of what needed to be said to get her to trust him. How somewhere down the line, pretending to care, to know notice details about her, and blurred into reality.

"It feels like it sometimes," he ventures, not sure how much he should say, but the statement feels true enough. Having loved Sara for so long, it's hard to remember a time when he didn't.

Michael reaches for a box, holding it up in approval for yMike? The young boy nods, and Michael puts it down next to the bags of M&Ms.

The leisurely walk down the aisle, Mike looking down at his feet, walking on the lines of the tile, scuffing his sneakers.

"Even when you weren't together?" He asks, almost in a whisper, resembling that of his dad.

The florescent lights of the store cast down on them, illuminating a truth, and possibly a motive to the questions being asks.

Michael's brow furrows, his elbows moving to the handle, as his fingers clasp in front of him, before moving upright again.

"You can love someone when you're not with them," he hesitantly answers, contemplating his next words carefully. "Sometimes, you can love them even more when you're not together," he says, causing Mike's head to slowly turn to him with an inquisitive look on his face.

"Like missing someone?" Mike asks with a tilt of his head.

"Sort of," Michael agrees. "You see, sometimes you don't realize how much someone means to you when you see them everyday. You take them for granted, until they're no longer there. And then you feel an absence, a hole where they once were."

Mike stops walking, looking up at his dad with the same concerned eyes he sees in Sara.

"But…you can…be together again, right?"

Michael leans over again, his feet meeting his son's with a love that he knows only grew stronger over the years that he was away, continuing still with every day he spent with him.

"Yeah, buddy, sometimes, if the love is strong enough, and forgiveness is willing to be accepted, then you can be together again," he explains.

"Like you and Mom," Mike says with a smile.

"Exactly," Michael says, knowing full well that a lot of forgiveness had been accepted when it came to their relationship, but also a lot of love.

"Did you love her when you gave her that rose?" Mike asks with a little smile, as they continue on.

Michael's hand comes out to tangle in his son's hair.

"Now you're just asking to get me into trouble," he teases.

Mike raises an eyebrow, the same look Sara gives him when she knows he's trying to get out of the truth.

"Every single time," Michael happily confesses.


	22. Chapter 22

The heat of the summer sun beats down on Michael, the hoodie he's wearing causing a sheen of sweat to cover his face. A small price to pay for his destination, and not unlike his time on the run. Still hiding his identity, still lurking around in shadows, hoping that no one will notice him. His sleeves, this time, not hiding tattoos but rather the skin of a man who wasn't meant to exist any longer.

He'd been between missions, so to speak. Jacob had been sending him around the world, banished to various prisons, breaking out people he didn't dare think about the ramifications of his actions. It was as if he were living his life over and over again, never quite reaching his happy ending, instead forced right back to the start, forever grasping for his family that was just within reach, but so violently yanked from his grasp.

The day was more humid than most, so he's not surprised when he sees Sara's hair tied up, exposing her neck in a tank top, free to expose herself to the world, sunshine warming her in its rays, illuminating her identity to him, a beacon of home, beckoning him closer still.

But he stops, still, his blue eyes warming as he sees her reach into the backseat of her car, picking up her son, their son, into her arms.

He's gotten bigger since the last time Michael had seen him. He's got more hair now, the sunlight striking it at the right angle, giving it an auburn tint to match Sara's. It has Michael smiling from his position, as he slowly trails behind her. When he imagined his child before he was born, the image he always conjured resembled that of Sara, her insistence that any child of their's would look more him, apparently only wishful thinking on her part, because as it stood, their boy looked just like her. And he can't help but be thankful that he was granted at least that.

She smells of lavender, her scent lingering in the dew of the air, soaking him it is soothing comfort, his eyes closing, taking in the feeling of her surrounding him, if only an essence of her. Memories flood him of the brief amount of time that he was allowed to take her in, all of her without fear of retribution.

The part of the zoo they were in had a wooded feel to it, shrubbery and trees aligning the trails, offering him plenty of spots to hid behind, duck if necessary as he trailed them.

As he takes in the small boy's eyes widening as Sara pointed out birds to him, his tiny finger pointed with her, bouncing him on her hip. The kind of activity he'd had maybe done with him had he been in their life and not just trailing behind.

Michael's brow furrows, his eyes squinting as the guilt engulfs him, shrouding him in contempt for the situation he was in, a determination to formulate a plan. But as he glances over at the pair that have stopped to look at an owl, he can't help but configure a list of things he doesn't know about his son.

His favorite food, his favorite toy, his first word, if he's ever felt an absence of his father and if not, when will that happen, if ever? He's not even sure what Sara calls him. He knows his name is Michael, a thought that only makes him cringe a little, but he's never heard her use his name, her words usually swallowed up in the wind, leaving him with nothing but a yearning for something, anything about his family.

They're on the move again when he looks up again, and he quickly moves to keep up with them, his foot stepping on a branch left in the trail, causing a crack to ring out.

There's no time to dash into the foliage, instead he turns, hoping that the hood conceals who he is, simultaneously wishing that she'd recognize his silhouette, walk up, and resume their life as before. But his shoulders slump, as he braces himself for her to move on. Only looking back briefly, the ghost of her husband nowhere on her mind.

Moments later, when he deems it safe, he turns back around, coming face to face with the owl, who wore a disguise of eyes on the back of his head, also concealing his own identity, and Michael's head cocks to the side as an idea forms.

His eyes dancing with enlightenment, flickering to the small boy who's staring, his mother's back to him, but his son's eyes bore into him, and it's not quite recognition but it's the closest to contact that he'd had with his namesake, the brown meeting the watery sea of a storm reflected back at him.

 _I will come back._


	23. Chapter 23

Sara walks into the kitchen, the back of her hand coming up to her mouth, having gotten up too quickly from the couch, causing a bout of nausea to hit her.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, she closes her eyes, taking a few deep breaths until it passes, her hand coming to rest against her still flat stomach.

"Sara?" Michael asks, concern etched on his face, sitting at the island in the middle of the kitchen, pen paused in mid-air from hitting the pad of paper that he had been scribbling on.

"I'm good," she says with a smile, slowly walking over to where he sat, pulling her hair behind her ear.

"You sure?" His worry about her always present, but now multiplied by one more Scofield added to the mix.

"Positive," she says, reaching out to squeeze his hand, before turning around to the sink. "So what are you working on?"

"Mike's birthday party," Michael says with a bit of a laugh. Sara glances behind her just in time to see his fingers working their way to his temple, obviously stressed by this task.

"He's going to love it," she tries to comfort him. Michael having taken on the task of planning their son's party, determined to make up for all the ones that he'd missed. The pressure of delivering something perfect nothing that had been demanded by Mike, but instead put upon himself, like always.

It didn't help that they had recently found out that Sara was pregnant, the news taking them both by surprise. Not unwelcome, but completely unexpected. They hadn't yet broken the news to Mike, but the symptoms were becoming more and more obvious, and her sweet boy had shown concern over a flu that seemed she just couldn't quite shake..or so she'd told him.

Michael had agreed with Sara, they'd tell Mike after the party, not wanting to take any attention away from their son, slowly easing him into the idea of an expanding family.

"I know, I just want it to be perfect," he almost pleads to himself, his eyes squinting with a sadness that had been making its appearance less and less since coming home. But every now and then, when he was reminded of the time he'd missed, he got that look, the one that begged for forgiveness that had been granted to him long ago, the only person still holding a grudge, himself.

Sara walks back over to him, wrapping her arms around his chest from behind, her head coming to rest on his shoulder, their cheeks pressed against each other.

"Mike's lucky to have such a thoughtful Dad," she whispers, and his hand comes to grip her hands that have a hold on him.

She can feel him smile, the movement causing one to spread across her face as well.

"Mom?" She hears, Mike walking into the kitchen, tired eyes, and tussled hair from having just woken up.

"There you are, sleepy head," she says, Michael quickly flipping the pad of paper over so Mike couldn't see what had been written.

Climbing up into the chair next to his dad, Mike rests his elbows on the island.

"What's that?" He asks, pointing at the now upside down pad of paper. Sara kisses the top of his head, moving back towards the cabinets, throwing a look at Michael that suggests their son is far too observant for his own good.

"It's uhh…grocery list," Michael says with a smile. "For after breakfast," he adds.

Sara places a bowl of cereal in front of Mike.

"Oh," Mike says with a yawn, before grabbing his spoon and digging into his breakfast. "I thought maybe it was for the baby," he says matter of factly, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, as his parents look on in shock.


	24. Chapter 24

She's been debating with herself since she found out, the logical part of her repeating over and over again, _this wasn't the time_. But the test seemingly weighted in the pocket of her jacket, like a ticking time bomb, silently signaling all that could be lost.

Her hair hangs wildly around her, the stress of the day having taken its toll in the form of her hands endless moving through her auburn locks. Bags hanging heavy underneath her eyes, but as she glances up, Michael's look of relief all she can see. Silent promises, the blue winning out over the green, creating a storm of concern scanning over her, as he made sure she was okay.

"Sara," he whispers, but doesn't continue, for once not knowing what to say.

Her eyes flutter shut, eyelashes dancing across the bruise-like shadows. The quiet cadence of his voice saying her name not unfamiliar. One in which she'd long since memorized back when they were doctor - patient, the line clearly drawn, Michael grabbing her hand and leading her gently over the boundaries of normal that she'd willingly stepped over right into illegal territory.

A twitch of her mouth, a silent laugh of sorts at how under control she believed she was handling things. The stick in her pocket almost mocking just how far she would go with the man who seemed to exude a level of charm she wasn't capable of avoiding. If not for the genuine concern he possessed, a care those around him unlike no other, she would've written him off as nothing more than a flirt. But the combination had wormed its way into her heart.

Eyes opening, her smile now full fledged, her gaze meets his own.

He wears a look similar to confusion as he stares back at her, not knowing what's going on.

Stepping forward, he leans against the table next to them, his fingers meeting the cool surface, causing her eyes to wander down.

All this time their lives had been measured by promises of someday, and as she brings her hand to the pocket of her jacket, the one with the information she'd been concealing, she thinks that someday sounds like today.

"Are you okay?" He asks her, not for the first time that day, and she's certain it won't be the last.

Looking up at him, she knows that he can't read her expression, the confusion on his face leading him to think she was worried, spurring him on to talk about his plan. An explosion of some sort.

Her body present, but her mind wandering, continually debating what the best way to break this news was.

Shaking her head from its reverie, staring down at her feet, fluttering eyelashes at the uncertainty playing between them.

"How big of an explosion are we talking about?" She asks, almost gritting her teeth.

"Big enough to end all of this," he assures her, neither of them able to look at each other as yet another silent promise is made.

She nods along, wanting to believe that it really would be the end of this.

"Sara, what are you feeling?" He asks, and her head perks up, his face imperceptibly unreadable.

She steps forward, hesitation heard in her footstep.

His head turning to look at her.

"Michael, I'm…pregnant," she says, a slight laugh attached to the end of her statement.

The room hangs in their silence, her eyes watering at the statement that she'd been biting back.

It's then that a smile spreads across his face, the first one she'd seen in a while. It wasn't riddled with the stress or the worry of what was going on. The circumstance they were currently in unable to to keep his excitement from peeking out.

"Yeah?" He asks, as if unaccustomed to the sound of good news. And it was good news as far as she was concerned.

A smile tears across her lips, hope dancing in her eyes as she stares at the man whose promises had been fulfilled.

A slight nod is given, before she launches into his arms. Her eyes crinkling with a happiness that had been absent from her life, but had since been renewed. She can feel his nose buried in her neck, his eyes closing, as his hand plays with her hair.

"A new start," he whispers into her.


	25. Chapter 25

Sara's eyes groggily open, her old t-shirt riding high on her abdomen, sheets dangling off of her hips, one leg thrown off the bed, as if she'd collapsed onto the mattress, instantly falling asleep.

The heel of her palm comes to rub her eyes, attempting to see clearly, before making its way to her hair, stacked atop her head in a messy bun.

A yawn escapes her, as she glances at the glow of the numbers on the clock next to her. An ungodly hour reading back to her in screaming red numbers, and for a brief moment she feels panic run through her.

She had been due to wake up for a feeding nearly an hour ago, but she didn't hear any screams coming. Quickly glancing over her shoulder to the bed, she finds it empty. Her hand running over the sheet to find it cold, Michael having vacated it a while ago.

A sense of relief seemingly takes over her knowing that Michael was up, but she still felt a tug, luring her to check on her baby girl.

Throwing both her feet to the hardwood floor, she moves to stand, wobbling slightly, the lack of sleep messing with her sense of balance, needing a second to gain her faculties before darting off.

Her bare feet slap the wood, giving a hollow sound to the hallway as she pads her way to the nursery.

The past week had been something of an adjustment period. Her and Michael were still trying to find a good routine with Isla, while still giving Mike the attention that he needed, as well. He'd taken to being a big brother instantly, her heart having melted the first time she saw both her babies together, Mike's little finger wrapped in the even tinier fist of his little sister.

This time around had been different from Mike. The nerves were still there, no love lost on the second child. But she was no longer alone on this journey. Michael having been with her every step of the way, delicately handling their daughter. The tears shed last time from feeling alone were replaced this time with a relief that they had been given another chance.

Peeking into the room, she spots Michael sitting in the rocker they'd purchased months ago. Barely moving back and forth, the movement just enough to lull Isla to sleep. He stared down at her, mesmerized in her presence.

It wasn't the first time she'd caught him like this. She often caught him peering into the bassinet, a little grin playing on his lips, as he debated with himself whether to reach out and run his finger over her cheek, risking her waking up or simply just soaking her in quietly.

Tonight, it seemed he couldn't resist, having picked her up, cradling her in his arms.

The squeak of the floor alerts him of Sara's whereabouts, and he briefly moves to meet her eyes from his seat.

"Hey," she whispers, her smile unhidden in the dark, the soft glow of a nightlight near her.

He just smiles in response, and she takes that as an invitation to approach. Tiptoeing to where he sat, she kneels on one of the arms of the chair.

"Did she cry to eat?" Sara almost mouths to him, not wanting to wake the sleeping baby.

Michael shakes his head, as they both stare down at Isla. Her dark hair peeking out from the blanket she was wrapped in. Her tiny fingers grasping onto the edge of the floral print.

"Probably soon," he says, his long fingers moving to adjust her closer to him, causing her to stir for a second, both of them holding their breath, before she settled again.

Sara nods, knowing it was just a matter of time before her cries rang out through the house.

"She's so perfect," he says with a grin, looking up at Sara. And she swears she can feel her heart flutter at the adoration he has for their family, reflected back to him in Sara's amber eyes.

"Mhmm," she hums, resting her head against his arm, her eyes slowly closing. The exhaustion of the past week catching up to her. Her eyes fluttering shut, snuggled into her husband.

The distinct patter of Mike's footsteps heard as she drifted to sleep.

"Are they sleeping?" She hears.

A soft _shhhh_ whispered, accompanied with laugh from Mike at the sight of both Scofield girls passed out.

The entire family huddled in one room, the only adjustment appearing to be their sleeping arrangements as they fell right into the normalcy of a family of four.


	26. Chapter 26

Michael can feel eyes on him as he exits the car, his fingers nervously tapping against his leg.

They'd been packing boxes at the house, a move in their horizon, refusing to spend their time in a house that felt so tainted now. He walked through it like a ghost town, memories, both good and bad, haunting him of everything that he had missed over the years.

It hadn't taken long before Sara had suggested that they make a fresh start, somewhere, anywhere but here. He'd thrown the idea that they move back to Chicago out one night at dinner. The opportunity for them to have a second chance in the city where it had all started sounding appealing to them both, the promise of endless baseball games a win for Mike.

Their items, very little of his own, sat neatly packed in front of them, boxes lining every room as they prepared to take off. One missing piece left, Mike.

"Why don't you pick him up from school?" Sara had thrown out casually, as if it were something he did all the time. But he saw through her, the little grin on her mouth when he'd lit up at the chance to do something so mundane with his son.

So there he stood, parked car next to him, as he waited for his son to walk out of those doors, the first time for him, the last for Mike as they made their way west.

His thumb rubbed at his palm, not quite sure what he was nervous about, but then again, every act of being a parent felt big, important to him. Having missed so much, he was always eager to participate, but hesitant, not wanting to push his boundaries with a son that was still warming up to him. And while Sara assured him that he was doing great, that, if anything, Mike was more than accepting of the father he'd had missing from his life. He was still young, and a bit wary of new people.

Glancing over to the side, he could see a group of moms gawking at him, curiosity weighing on all their faces at the man who stood waiting for a child. The idea of being watched something that unsettled his stomach, having to remind himself that this was normal. That they were just being cautious, and he was being paranoid.

Raising his hand, he awkwardly waves towards them, attempting to ease their minds.

Thankfully, Mike comes out the door relatively soon, his mouth giving way to a smile upon seeing who was there to pick him up.

Bouncing down the steps, his backpack hitting him from behind with every step, he nearly runs up to Michael, wrapping his arms around his waist.

Michael's hand coming to rest on his head, as he embraces him.

"Hey, bud," he greets his son with a grin. "How was your last day?"

Mike nods, adjusting the straps of his backpack.

"It was good," he says, glancing up at his dad.

"Excuse me," Michael feels a woman gripping his arm, nearly whipping him around.

"Can I help you?" Michael asks, his first instinct to guide Mike behind him.

"Mike," the woman grabs for the boy. Her voice panicky.

"Dad?" He says, his quiet voice pleading for help from him.

The woman's face seems to contort into confusion at the plea.

"Mike, who is this?" She asks, bending down to meet his eyes.

"He's my dad," he says, and Michael swears if they weren't in a situation as awkward as this one, his heart would've surged with pride and Mike's label.

"Hi, I'm Michael Scofield," he says, extending his hand to the woman who reluctantly introduces herself as Heather. Her eyes looking at him like they'd seen a ghost, disbelief written all over her.

"Sara mentioned that you were back, I just…I didn't…" she stumbles, and Michael laughs, hoping to ease her nerves. Pulling Mike back to rest against him. "I'm sorry."

Michael shakes his head, as if it were an honest mistake, almost grateful someone was looking out for his son even if by misguided notions.

"It was very nice to meet you," Michael says, and he's pretty sure she's reaching for her phone to call Sara as he and Mike make their way to the car.

"You ready to go home?" Michael asks, glancing back at him as he got settled into his seat.

Mike nods in the back with a smile, as they pull out, Chicago in their near future.


	27. Chapter 27

Sara hugs her pillow tighter, the soft material of the sheet rubbing against her cheek as a lazy smile stretches across her face.

Michael's turned on his side, his eyes taking on more of an emerald than the usual blue ocean she swam in, the storm having passed, nothing but tranquility lingering between them.

His mouth mirrors her own, the first of many smiles she'd seen from him since the nightmare had ended, leaving him with nothing but time to reacquaint himself with his family.

The familiarity of how they'd done this for just a few short weeks before their world was turned upside down once again, slowly coming back to her. The ease of transition not without its bumps, but this part, the lying around in bed, soft smiles, and quiet promises told through the gentle gaze of their eyes on each other, that part was smooth.

His eyes squint together, furrowing his dark brow, until he gives a short laugh into his pillow.

It rings out through the room, bringing her smile even wider, the carefree way in which he can even do such a thing, something she never thought she'd see again.

So many nights she found herself in the same position, except it wasn't Michael that was staring back at her, but rather an empty side of the bed, the space in which he was supposed to be. A pregnant belly, and a hole in her heart. It had been a dark hole of grief she'd lived in, only burying herself deeper with every night that passed.

If she had known back then that there was hope outside of the kicking baby inside of her, she'd have spent more time laughing herself. And having been presented with that opportunity she wasn't about to waste it.

She felt his fingertips on her bare back, realizing she'd drifted off into her own thoughts, brought back by his touch.

It's not until he begins tracing a pattern that she realizes he's spotted her tattoo.

"You have a tattoo," he says, and it's not a question, but rather he's stating it to himself, memorizing every line of ink etched into her skin.

"You're not the only one, Scofield," she teases, as his own inked hand runs along the black crane on her shoulder, an involuntary flinch wracking her body when he gets to the scar hidden beneath, slightly raising his finger before bringing it back down.

Having resolved herself to covering the past with something a bit more hopeful. She'd debated getting a rose, something that was just for them, bound to bring a smile to her face. But instead of opting for something that was given only when returned, she'd chosen instead for the image that somehow appeared whenever she as in the most trouble. A beacon of hope in the darkness, offering a solution, in this case covering an ugly scar. The belief that one day, maybe, when she least expected it, Michael would return as well. Offering her a way out of the mess she'd gotten herself into.

A pile of cranes having drowned in her drain, the one on her shoulder an emboldened reminder of what she carried with her despite her discarded mail.

"I like it," he says, matter of factly, an impish grin playing on his lips, almost as if satisfied that he'd somehow been with her even when he hadn't been physically.

His fingers brushing over it again, before moving to sit between them in the middle of the bed.

Sara's hand moving out from under the pillow she had it buried underneath to rest on top of his hand.

"I'm glad you're back," she voices into the space, her eyes begging him to know just how much she missed him.

"Me too," he whispers back, and she squeezes his hand, knowing that he never really left, his presence felt every single day, in the form of Mike, in the tattoo, his memory inked into every facet of her life, now physically joined together again, this time with permanence.


End file.
